


Rosebury Grounds

by rosequartzstars



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Edwardian, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Muggle, Alternate Universe - Regency, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Aristocracy, Class Differences, Edwardian Period, F/M, Forbidden Love, M/M, Multi, Nobility, Noble and peasant, References to Shakespeare, Regency, Regency Romance, Slow Burn, Slow To Update, The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, because apparently i don't know how to write anything else, but i can't guarantee anything, english nobility, i'm trying my best at historical accuracy, impossible love, nobles - Freeform, they're all edwardian english nobles, this is what happens when you watch too much downton abbey, you're all here for the fluff anyway it's not like i need to be the history channel or anything
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:47:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26934598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosequartzstars/pseuds/rosequartzstars
Summary: Lady Hermione Granger has been reared up in society, to marry well and be a good housewife, like any good Edwardian lady, but that's far from what she wants. When a handyman by the name of Ronald Weasley joins the house staff, utterly disarming her from the moment they first meet, he might just be the opportunity she needs to break loose and choose her own destiny.Lord Draco Malfoy has a secret— a dark, unforgivable secret he knows would cost him everything if it ever saw the light. But it's getting harder and harder to keep it from his father, because Draco keeps bumping into a pair of emerald eyes and a head of lush black hair, and he can't pretend his knees don't buckle at the sight. Which would be quite alright, if not for one small problem: it's not a woman they belong to.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 32
Kudos: 56





	1. A Way Out (Or In?)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [accio_broom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/accio_broom/gifts), [Folk_melody](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Folk_melody/gifts), [cheesyficwriter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheesyficwriter/gifts).



> Hello, friends! I am back with another longfic, and one that I have been excited to write for a very long time— I actually came up with the idea halfway through writing IAU, and I pushed myself to finish it before starting on this one. 
> 
> This fic is basically what happens when you reread Harry Potter and binge Downton Abbey within the same frame of time— hopefully in a good way. It is also as much a Romione as it is a Drarry, so you might enjoy this best if these are two ships you ship simultaneously.
> 
> A word of warning: I am currently in the midst of university applications, meaning I will update this story much less regularly than I did IAU during the summer. However, I already have it planned out, so fear not: I know where the story is headed and I am eager to get us there, however long it takes.
> 
> Finally, I've been gathering all my visual ideas for this fic in a Pinterest board. If you so please, you can see it here: https://pin.it/6Rt8beH 
> 
> Thank you, as always, for your readership, and I can't wait to get our characters through this new story!

Hermione ran as fast as her legs could take her— which, clad in those uncomfortable low-heeled _atrocities_ her mother called shoes, was proving an almost-impossible task. She could hear the voices of her mother and her lady's maid, Norma, gaining in volume: they were getting closer. She had to make a decision, and fast— in hindsight, the decision she should have made from the very start of her wild run.

She shook off the shoes, abandoning them in the middle of the gravel path that connected the main house to the outer boundary of the village, and continued running, feeling considerably lighter having cast off those dastardly heels. _Now, if only I could do the same with this corset!_ she thought, starting to wheeze as the horrible device constrained her ribs. She did have to hand it to it, however— all that running and heaving and panting and moving and the corset hadn't shifted one single inch. That was resilience she could admire, even if said resilience was currently making her breathing more jagged than was probably safe. Her hair came down in thick curtains around her face. Her mother had tried to tame it, slathering it in pastes and pomades in an attempt to straighten it, but the characteristic frizz that usually dominated Hermione's head was struggling to break free and making sure she knew it.

"She can't run for long," she heard her mother's voice rise from somewhere behind her (she couldn't waste seconds of her spree in turning to look). She zipped around a willow tree, hoping the thick foliage would help her conceal her change in course, running from her mother's voice like a deer from the crack of a hunter's footsteps on the forest floor. As she continued running parallel to the house's east wall, hoping to have lost them, she nonetheless had to admit that her mother was right. She _couldn't_ run for long. Though getting rid of the shoes had given her more of it, her time was running out, and if that dreadful corset had anything to do with it she had only minutes left before she collapsed with exhaustion.

She needed to find a place to hide, and _fast_.

She doubled around a corner, sticking as close to the wall of the house as possible. As she came up toward the south wall —the broader, back part of the house—, she spotted a group of people running across the North Lawn, and her heart caught in her throat: it appeared the search party had grown. Now it wasn't only Norma chasing after her, but her mother had somehow enlisted Pierrot, the gardener, and Jack, the stable boy, in what was quickly becoming a wild goose chase. Hermione observed them: scuttling across the grass on stocky little legs, her fur-clad mother trailing a few steps behind —too dignified to run, but trying to _glide_ as quickly as she could while still staying a distance from _the service_ —, the sight should have been hysterical were it not for the stakes being so high.

The good news was, they were almost on the other side of the house from her, and judging by the direction of their search, they all thought she had run off toward the village. Good. That would buy her time. But the need to find a hiding place was growing direr by the second.

She slid along the cool stone wall, trying to stay as quiet as she could. The rustle of her stuffy dress against the gravel, however, was making it near impossible. Hermione felt another pang of contempt toward her mother: didn't she know petticoats and draped fabrics were out of style? Not that Hermione was particularly fashion-forward, or anything, but one of the sleeker, less spacious dresses Edwardian ladies now preferred would have made it much easier to run.

She winced as she stepped over a branch, which her tulle underskirt crackled loudly against. "This choux pastry of a dress is going to get me killed," she huffed, hoping the sound had been inconsequential. But she had no such luck: the 'choux pastry' had, indeed, put her in greater danger.

Roused by the faint sound of friction between the branch and the petticoat, one of Pierrot's assistants had looked toward Hermione. His eyes widened, and without a word to her, he turned robotically toward the North Lawn and brought his hands up to his mouth, undoubtedly to call for his boss and the rest of his searching colleagues.

Swearing under her breath, Hermione abandoned all discretion: she broke out into a full-on sprint toward the other end of the south wall. As she neared the other end, she heard voices grow louder. No doubt, her wily mother had split the party and sent one half along the west wall and another along its east counterpart to trap Hermione on either side of the south wall. She was cornered, and it was all over—

The glint of the sun along a glass surface made her turn her head, coming from one of the windows of the woodshed nestled between a group of trees, just a few feet away from the house and the gravel rectangle that immediately surrounded it. She was saved. The voices grew louder and louder, but Hermione didn't bother looking back to check where they were coming from as she crossed the few steps of grass that separated her stand on the gravel from the small woodshed. Right as a shadow began to creep from the corner of the west wall, Hermione reached the shed, flung the door open, and ran into the woodshed, making sure to close the door behind her without slamming it, careful not to attract any attention to where she had slipped in.

She flattened against the log walls, holding her breath as she heard Norma, Pierrot, Jack, and whoever else her mother had strung along thunder by. "She's not here, my lady," Hermione heard a male voice, and she could almost picture her mother sourly pursing her lips as she assumed the news. Hermione stayed there, pressed flat against the wooden wall next to the door, holding her breath, until she heard the footsteps definitively vanish with distance. Only then did she finally release her breath and allow her shoulders to lose some of their tension, slumping downward with evident relief.

"I didn't know I was expecting company," a voice suddenly came from the far end of the woodshed, and all the tension she had lost rushed immediately back into her body. On high alert, Hermione was too stunned to speak, but the owner of the voice stepped closer, coming from behind the rack in the middle of the shed where a few stray logs were stored. He took a look at her face and let out a long, impressed whistle. "Much less that that company be the lady of the house."

Well aware that his eyes were boring into her, Hermione defiantly returned the favor, piercing him through with a stare as she examined him as thoroughly as he seemed to be doing her. Tall and limber, but well-built, the man must be around her age. His pale skin was spattered with freckles, which matched his bright orange hair almost exactly in color (even in the reddish wash the grubby woodshed windows gave the whole scene). His nose was long and he wore a smirk naturally, and as her brown eyes met his icy blue ones, he tilted his head off to one side cockily.

"I'm not the lady of the house," was all she managed to say. "Not if my mother has anything to do with it."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"That she's dying to marry me off," Hermione grumbled. She didn't know why she was venting to a stranger, much less one of _'the service_ ' her mother would have fired for ' _not have shown her due respect_ '— which was taken to mean he hadn't sunk into a reverence the moment Hermione ventured even the tip of her toe into the shed, and what's more, had actually cracked fun at her being there.

"Isn't it a little soon?" the man said, crossing his arms over his chest loosely, not in a gesture of self-consciousness and concealment but rather one of comfortable interest. "Especially considering you must be, what, twenty, and every 'acceptable prospect' Lady Granger has in mind is probably double your age at the very youngest?"

Hermione couldn't help but laugh a little, before reining her tongue back in. She had never before met this man, whoever he may be, and though she abhorred her mother's draconian stance toward the servants of the house and the deference she expected from them, she couldn't help but be a little taken aback by how insolently this man was speaking about his employers.

"Excuse me, but who are you?" she blurted, a little rudely.

The man's loose smile tautened into a smirk. "Before I let you in on that, I think I deserve to know what you're doing in my shed. You seemed to be in quite a tizzy when you barged in without knocking, interrupting my work."

Hermione looked toward the corner of the shed, where an axe sat buried halfway through a thick log. It was evident he had been chopping wood before she came in. She stiffened. "There is no reason I should tell you the answer."

"Understandable," the man countered, "but by those same lines, there is no reason I should tell you my name."

"I could force you."

"That would be very much like your mother. And as I hear it, I believe that is something you would despise."

He had a point. To force ' _the service_ ' to do her bidding was her mother's favorite pastime. Hermione would be no better than her then, and her most steadfast resolve was to never become her mother. Which meant that, if she really did want to know the answer, she'd have to play by his rules. She sighed.

"I was running from my mother, predictably. We are to receive visitors tomorrow, 'eligible bachelors' (which, in my mother's language, means she has invited them as marriage prospects), and she had had me locked in my bedroom since eleven in the morning trying on dresses for tomorrow's dinner. Five hours were quite enough for me, so as soon as the seamstress left the door slightly ajar when she was coming in, I saw my chance and I escaped." The corset dug into her ribcage, reminding her painfully of her mad race. "Too bad the opportunity came when I was wearing the ugliest dress in all of England."

"Look at it on the bright side," the man offered. "At least the thing is ruined now, which means you won't be able to wear it."

Hermione looked down: the vapidly blue choux-pastry dress whose noisy ruffles had propelled her into the woodshed in the first place was torn and drooping in places, the entirety of the hem dripping with mud. The man was right: if this whole odyssey had a silver lining, it definitely was that that horrible thing was no longer a wardrobe option.

"Why is she so eager to marry you off, if I may ask?" the man continued as Hermione examined the now-tattered dress. "Shouldn't she be keeping you close, what with the whole lineage and inheritance thing?"

"You mistake me for my brother," Hermione chuckled dryly. "Orlando's the heir, the future Earl of Rosebury. Lineage skips over women, no matter if they're the eldest. So as soon as my little brother was born, my mother might as well have thrown me overboard. With a male Granger to carry the line, a daughter is just an additional expense. She can't wait for a day it's another man that pays for my frocks, and not my father."

"Like it's _her_ money to spend," the man commented offhandedly, and Hermione was surprised to find a fierce agreement. It was her father's money, after all, not her mother's— so why was it the old lady that made her feel like such a financial burden, as if it were a personal offense to herself?

"Satisfied? I even answered the additional question about the inheritance," Hermione said. "Now will you tell me what you're called?"

"Oh, gladly. I'm Ron, Ronald Weasley. I'm the handyman for the estate," the man said, extending a hand out to her. A little gingerly, she shook it: it was slick with sweat, and she could feel the roughness of a few calluses against her contrastingly smooth skin.

" _Enchantée_ ," Hermione said sardonically in over-pompous French, attempting to confer to their woodhouse meeting the same quality with which a sociable _soirée_ might be infused.

"And you are?"

The question completely stunned Hermione. "You don't know my name? But then how did you know I was, in your words, 'the lady of the house'?"

"Because everybody knows who you are," Ron explained. "Sure, I have seen you on your walks or peering out the library window or getting into the car, but to me you have always been 'Young Lady Granger' or 'Mistress Granger'. You forget I'm not an in-house servant— I'm part of the grounds staff. I have never had the opportunity to hear your parents call you by your name inside the house. So, unless your first name is 'Lady' or 'Mistress', I may know _what_ you are, but not _who_."

Hermione felt vaguely ashamed that her title preceded her among the staff that did not work inside the manor. He was right— to him, she had no reason to be anything else than her position, but it still made her feel awfully haughty that she had yet to have a name attached to her face. It felt odd to have to introduce herself, to not _be known_ before she ever really knew anyone. "It's Hermione."

"From _A Winter's Tale_?"

She was surprised. Few people would connect the reference, but she would have never expected it from a handyman. "Yes, from _A Winter's Tale_. It seems my parents had a penchant for Shakespearean names."

"Of course, Master Orlando," Ron expertly pointed out. " _As You Like It._ "

Hermione was fascinated. "How do _you_ know so much Shakespeare?"

"A bit classist, innit?"

"Uh— sorry, I mean—"

"I'm teasing. I know you I'm not exactly the type of chap you'd expect to be well-versed in literature. You want the truth?"

"Of course."

"But you won't tell."

"Of course not."

"Promise."

"Promise."

Ron let out air from his nostrils and tousled his own hair. "The truth is, I sneak into your dad's library, inside the manor, when I haven't much to do and I know nobody's in there. I borrow books (don't worry, I put them all back), and I've found I have quite the soft spot for good ol' Willy S." He looked right at her with a piercing gaze. "You promised you wouldn't tell."

"And I won't," Hermione said in earnest. "I wouldn't have told anyway, considering that you've taken the time to do your research on my name, albeit unwittingly."

"Fantastic," Ron exhaled with evident relief. "I thought nobody would mind if I took books, to be honest, considering the rich only ever seem to use them as decoration."

"Excuse me?" Hermione said, straightening her spine to gain whatever few millimeters she could against his height and staring him down.

Ron mimicked her, straightening his back and returning the defiant look. "Well, aren't I right? Don't rich people just have libraries to brag? Nobody actually reads the books, they just sit pretty on the shelves so all the guests can take note of how cultured the family is, but nobody ever reads them, isn't that right?"

" _I_ read," Hermione said indignantly. She took this as a personal offense: her refuge in a house where she was expected to sit like a doll and look pretty was the library, and to have the hours she had devoted to paging through its tomes negated by a handyman with an overinflated ego was a crushing blow.

"Oh, yeah? Prove it," Ron challenged her, the smirk returning to dance along the corners of his thin lips. "Recommend a book to me."

Hermione was disarmed. Sure, she was a voracious reader, but it was something so personal to her, so secret (her mother had more than once expressed disapproval for the hours she spent among the bookshelves, so to do so often seemed like hiding), that to be compelled to share a bit of what she read with someone felt like sharing a bit of herself.

To try to conceal that, she fired back a witty retort like the ones she knew to expect from him by now: "I will, if I somehow manage to get back inside that house without getting caught and skinned alive by my mother and her cronies. They're probably still patrolling the grounds."

Ron's smirk curled into a mischievous smile. "I can help with that."

"How? She must have probably enlisted the whole groundskeeping staff by now, not to mention a few of the maids and the hall boys. There is no way to make it safely back into the house without any of them seeing me."

"There is," Ron said, the smile unwavering.

Hermione's interest was piqued. "How?"

"Follow me," Ron beckoned, opening the door to the woodshed and gesturing her out.

He led her through the thicket behind the woodshed, in a slow pace so as to not call too much attention and to keep the dress's loud rustles under control, away from the North Lawn and toward the circlet of cottages that were a short distance away from the south wall of Rosebury House. A small gravel path, like the one surrounding the house and leading to and away from it, linked the house to the cottage circlet, signaling clearly that they were a part of the estate. Walking the path would have put them in plain sight, but Ron wove his way through the edge of the forest that was a backdrop both to the house and to the cottages, and that would take them to the back of the circlet without being seen.

Hermione trod carefully: she had no shoes and only a pair of white stockings (which were now full of holes from the gravel, dusty from the woodshed, and increasingly dirty from the forest soil) to prevent her stepping on anything that might render her unable to walk. And _then_ she would go down, and the corset and the petticoat wouldn't let her get back up, and Ron would either have to call for help or help her up noisily, which would both make too much noise and then all discretion would be abandoned, and then she would get an even worse walloping from her mother for delving into the forest with _the service_ — No, she'd better not think about any of that, but just concentrate on her step and on staying silent.

At last, after what seemed like an ages-long prowl, she and Ron came up behind the first cabin in the circlet, right by the path that led to Rosebury House. Ron ventured out of the foliage first, surveying to see if anyone was out there that might give them away. Seeing none, he beckoned to Hermione again and led her around the back of the house to shove her in through the door before anyone saw them.

As Ron watched to make sure the coast was still clear, Hermione let her gaze wander around the cottage. It was a stout, stony building, identical to its sisters in the circlet, one of the cabins used to house the service that did not work inside the manor, was married, or for any other reason could not sleep in the servants' quarters. Ron, however, gave her no time to look around, unceremoniously shoving her toward the farthest corner of the cottage, where a small trapdoor was cut into the wooden floorboards.

Ron squatted and pulled on the trapdoor, with yawned open with the squeak of its hinges. "Through here," he signaled, gesturing to the trapdoor.

Hermione was skeptical. "You're going to get me back into the house _underground?"_

"Your choice: trust the tunnel, or brave the patrol outside," Ron said, the bottom half of his body already in the trapdoor.

Hermione weighed her options. "Fine," she caved, approaching the trapdoor's entrance gingerly. "But I don't know how we're going to get this hellish skirt through there."

Ron guided her feet toward the first of the stone steps that led from the trapdoor to the floor of the passageway, helping her down as they both crushed the skirt to fit it through. At last, when Hermione was stepping on the cold stone floor, her skirt all crumpled, Ron reached upward and closed the trapdoor.

They were immediately submerged in pitch-black dark. "Ron?" Hermione called, trying not to let her fright show through. The more time she spent down here, in this cold, drafty chute, the worse this idea seemed, however unattractive the alternative of facing her mother out there may be. "Ron, are you there?"

She heard rustling bounce off a corner nearby, and she swiveled toward the source of the sound, expecting to (but hoping she wouldn't) encounter a bat, or a swarm of cockroaches, or perhaps a much more threatening critter. She prepared for the worst— and then relaxed, although somewhat confused, when a light began dancing off the stone walls.

"It was just me," Ron said, an oil lamp swinging from his grasp. "I keep a lamp down here. I just had to find it."

"Thank the Lord you did," Hermione mumbled as they set off down the tunnel.

As they walked, Hermione tried to gauge where they were going: were they headed toward Rosebury House? How long was the walk? Or would he be leading her somewhere more secluded, maybe to kidnap her, maybe to kill her— after all, a handyman stood to gain with having the Earl's daughter well within his clutches, didn't he? And that he did: Hermione had trusted Ron and placed herself entirely in his hands. Even if she tried to bolt now, she wouldn't know where to go. Her best bet was to just keep walking, despite her being completely oblivious as to what their destination might be, exactly.

Luckily, her fears were unfounded. As they came to the end of the passageway, another set of stony steps appeared, leading up to a square around whose edges light filtered through into the tunnel. _The corresponding trapdoor_.

"Right that way," Ron said, and Hermione climbed a few of the steps to reach out and push the trapdoor open.

When her head popped out of it, she was surprised to see the very lobby of Rosebury Hall. In the hundreds of outcomes her paranoid mind had raised through, it was embarrassing to admit that her actual _house_ being the destination, despite that being the whole root of the plan, had never crossed her mind. "Where are we?" she asked Ron, trying to make sense of how they had ended up here.

"It's a corner of the secondary stairwell," Ron said, his head popping up beside hers. Hermione let her gaze sweep the space, and she did begin to recognize the secondary staircase that the service (and herself, sometimes, when hiding from her mother) used to move up and down the house without cluttering the grand stairwell. "It's poorly-lit and secluded. Perfect place for a secret passage, don't you think?"

Hermione looked at him, stunned. He met her gaze with a boyish grin and glinting eyes. "How do you know about this?"

"How do you think I get into the library? Through the front door?" Ron snorted.

Trying to make sense of it all, Hermione crawled out of the trapdoor. The main hall was deserted, the scullery maids and hall boys presumably out helping her mother hunt her down; besides, within the confines of the second stairwell, she and Ron definitely would not be seen.

On Rosebury House floor again, Hermione rose to her feet and brushed her dress off (to no avail, considering no Victorian gown, however out-of-date, was designed to withstand as much hustle and grime as Hermione had put this one through). She looked back at Ron, who still peered at her from the trapdoor. "Thank you," she said soberly.

He cocked an eyebrow up at her as his only response. "Your hair's all frizzy," was all he said, pointing it out matter-of-factly.

Hermione brought her hands up to her head and was pleased to find the natural tangle of her hair again, finally having broken through the subjugation all those hair products had subjected it to. "Good. That means it's getting back to its natural state."

Without another word, Ron's head ducked below the surface and the trapdoor was swift to close behind him, restoring Rosebury House to the normality Hermione was used to and leaving her —tattered, dirty, and messy, but _free_ — all alone in the center of the main hall.


	2. Arrival at Rosebury

As he handed his luggage off to one of the attentive hall boys, Draco stood grounded to the flowered carpet that covered the hall and took a moment to look around it. He was mildly unimpressed— the demure, Victorian furnishing of Rosebury House did not, in his opinion, measure up to the imposing image of Aschroft Manor, with its Gothic peaks from centuries past and the macabre lurk of its dark décor. Still, he thought as his gray eyes continued to scan the wide lobby, he had to admit there was a classic kind of beauty in the oaken finish of its wooden-and-stone walls. Yes, Rosebury House was undoubtedly a noble one, even if it wasn't quite to his aesthetic taste.

"Lord Malfoy, sir," a voice interrupted his survey. Draco tilted his head slightly to locate the source, determined to shoot one of his characteristically piercing glares to whoever had interrupted his musings, but he was quickly deterred when he saw the voice belonged to one of his hosts.

"Lady Granger, please," he said with a cool smile, stepping close enough to kiss her gloved hand. The older woman giggled like a schoolgirl, and inside, Draco felt a swelling of revulsion at such puerile behavior from what was supposed to be a dignified lady. "Lord Malfoy is my father."

"Thank you, Draco," a steely voice rumbled from behind him. "But it's you who'll have to answer to that title someday."

Draco released Lady Granger's hand and turned toward the door. The tall, sculptural figure of Lord Lucius Malfoy, Earl of Ashcroft, was erected monumentally in the frame of the wide oak door, holding his walking cane as an old king would his scepter. The royal illusion was broken as soon as Lucius broke posture to hand a valise to another hall boy, the litheness of his touch expressing just how disdainfully he felt about even _brushing_ against the hall boy's hand. When the hall boy had vanished upstairs, presumably to deposit the luggage in Lucius's guest room, the regal man finally stepped into the center of the hall, every step reverberating through it with the weight of his black travel boots. He was a man well aware of his attractiveness, which was conferred to him not really by his features (which were, like Draco's, shrewd and stretched tautly across his face, giving him the air of a permanent sneer) but rather by the poise and grace with which he carried himself. Even his long, white-blond hair, worn unusually long and loose past his shoulders, added to the aura of threatening elegance he radiated.

"Lady Amelia, is that truly you?" he drawled as he caught up to his son in the center of the hall, taking Lady Granger's hand where Draco's lips had alit barely seconds ago. "I must have mistook you for your daughter."

"Oh, stop it, Lord Malfoy," Lady Granger looked away with a blush, and again Draco stifled a grimace at the juvenile giggle that leaked through her lips. Perusing the wrinkles lining her face, Draco thought this must be a woman whose character led to a usual frown or puckering of the face. "Speaking of which, I apologize for the rather sparse reception. My daughter was supposed to be here to welcome you, but she and her brother are out riding."

"It is of no worry," Lucius said with an indecipherable smile. He was using the monotone neutrality Draco had never been able to pick apart: he was either honest, and unbothered by the lack of pomp, or utterly offended by it. With his father, he could never tell. "I assume we are the first to arrive, then?"

"Not quite," a different voice filled the hall now, and Draco's eyes trailed toward the far end of the hall to see a dapperly-suited man exit the library. His father's dangerously calm smile contorted into a grimace upon sight, which made it clear that he was a figure of note. The man was the only other nobleman he had ever seen, besides his father, that wore his hair long, except the man's was a rich brown where Lucius's was almost white, curly where Lucius's was ramrod straight, and his face was marked by a thin mustache where Lucius's was shaven clean. "Sorry to disappoint, Lucius."

Draco was surprised: he had never seen anyone address his father so casually by his first name, much less with Lucius staring at him with utter loathing. "Lord Black," was all he said, with a sneer that everyone else would take for a smile but Draco knew better than. "The _bachelor_ Lord Black."

"In the flesh," Lord Black grinned, seemingly unbothered by the emphasized reference to his unpaired civil state undoubtedly meant to be an insult. "Now, where is my dear cousin?"

Lord Black headed toward the door to meet Draco's mother halfway as she stepped into the house, oblivious to how Draco's heart had caught in his throat at the confirmation of his identity. _But how could he know? How could any of them know?_ If Lord Black was here, then that could only mean— No, surely he'd come alone, the last he'd heard, _he_ was languishing about around London— But what if he hadn't—?

"Lord Granger," his father's drawl interrupted his thoughts, and he had to fight to rein his heartbeat into sync again. Instead, he turned toward where his father had directed his remark, and saw another man emerge from the same door Lord Black had come through.

"Please, Lord Malfoy, Philip will suffice," the man said as he approached the party. He had a gentle, if idle, face, and the air of a man in command of his home.

"In that case, I insist— call me Lucius," purred his father as he extended his hand to shake Lord Granger's fraternally. Draco was puzzled: he had never known his father to offer his first name so voluntarily. There must have been a very good reason for them to have paid Rosebury Grounds a visit.

"I don't need to insist," Lord Black chimed in again, flanked by Draco's mother. "Everybody calls me Sirius anyway."

"How abasing," Lucius muttered under his breath, careful not to carve a chink in the sly smile he had so cunningly crafted.

"Traveling alone, Lord Bla– er, Sirius?" Draco said hesitantly to dispel the threat of awkward silence, aware that he was treading on unfamiliar ground. His father did not seem, by the looks he gave Draco, to appreciate his participation very much, but he had to ask.

"If by that you mean, is there a Lady Black, I can assure you that is still a title unfilled by anyone other than your aunt Bellatrix," Sirius said charmingly. Again, Draco felt a flash of disgust: upon hearing Lord Black was still available, Lady Granger had perked up like an eager puppy. No doubt, were it not for the wedding band around her finger and her husband right there to embody the vows it represented, Lady Granger would have been one of the countless old spinsters from noble families who were constantly throwing themselves at Lord Black desperately, trying to snag him despite it being overly clear that he intended to stay a bachelor forever.

Sirius's words, however, had had the opposite effect on Draco: he felt deflated, disappointed, and he was back to wondering whether this arduous trek with his father had had any sense at all if he wouldn't get to see—

"But," Sirius added, "if you mean did I have to come here all by myself, I'm fortunate to say the answer is no. I abused Lord and Lady Granger's hospitality by soliciting one more of their guest bedrooms for my godson, who accompanied me here."

Draco's heart tumbled forth in his chest. So it _hadn't_ been a vain attempt, after all.

He feigned nonchalance as he continued to pry: "So, where is he?" His father glared at him for the juvenile directness of his question. Draco cleared his throat and tried again, this time with the serious drawl his father expected of him. "What I mean to say is, I assume he's not around?"

Sirius seemed to have taken no notice of Draco's momentary lapse in poise. "No, I'm afraid he's not. He's out riding with the Granger children."

"They're hardly children anymore, Lord Black," their mother piped up. "Orlando _did_ turn eighteen last week, after all."

"A strapping young man already!" Sirius said cheerfully. "He'll be out and about in the world in no time! I should think both you and Lord Philip are happy to have a daughter still in the nest, then."

Lady Amelia's saccharine smile wavered. "Well, she is of marriage age, so I am sure both her father and I would much prefer her to find a husband of renown..."

Draco turned away and continued pacing the big hall. He had been through the motions of this very conversation countless times already: the girl her parents consider an expense, being married off to some heir somewhere, the parents trying to pass it off as it being 'for her good'. Come to think of it, after all, that was how the vast majority of marriages in _their class_ were consolidated. _Tale as old as time, truly_. He felt sorry for the Granger girl, sure —not only for her mother evidently wanting to give her away as fast as possible but also for having to grow up under that woman—, but he had other, more important things to worry about at the present moment.

Mainly, how to keep the Malfoy facade up as soon as he laid eyes on _him_.

Christ, he could hardly remember ever being so excited. Or was it anxiety beating savagely in his ribcage? The lines between both emotions were blurred beyond the point of distinction, and Draco thought that was just as well. Had he been thoroughly convinced that it was excitement, he would have entirely lost self-control by now; on the other hand, had he been sure it was anxiety, he would have already bolted back into the carriage. This uncertainty, ironically, was what was keeping him stable. All that was left was waiting for _him_ to arrive without giving himself away, but every second he counted down felt unbearably weighty.

He pretended to be intensely interested in a woolen tapestry woven through with threads of gold, hanging regally by the hall's hearth, and did not tear his eyes from the surrounding décor until the sudden percussion of riding boots clacking against the wooden floor interrupted the adults' bubbling small talk.

Draco froze. _This was it_. His breath hitched in his throat. What would he look like when he turned and saw him? Would he be just as he remembered him? Or would he be past the point of recognition? Draco wasn't sure which he'd prefer.

"Ah, Harry!" Sirius called boisterously, and as if Draco's fate wasn't yet sealed, that did it. He took a deep breath and turned, careful not to be too slow or too fast, displaying neither indifference nor eagerness, staying within the boundaries of the calculated coolness his father had cultivated in him since childhood.

It was a hard pretense to keep up, and much more so when his knees threatened to buckle when the sight of Black's godson came into view.

As he swept a top hat off his head, laughing, he shook his head and exposed the jet-black mop of hair that was as tousled as Draco remembered it to be. His eyes, behind long lashes, fluttered open, and Draco thought he might just die right then and there: the two glinting emeralds that had peppered his dreams lately flashed back at him. For a man of such short stature, he should not be inciting this height of emotion in Draco, and yet there he was, struggling even to feign normalcy in the wake of the greatest shock he had experienced since the first time they had met.

He was flanked by two other figures in the tight red blazers and beige slacks Draco knew to be characteristic of the horseback hunt. He recognized one of the faces: from below the brim of the top hat, two mischievous brown eyes twinkled, matching almost exactly in color the mid-neck-length wavy hair that, no doubt, his mother fussed over constantly. He had known Orlando Granger since they were boys, and in the fifteen years of so they had known and played with one another, very little had changed in his boyish appearance except for his height.

The other figure, Draco was surprised to see, was a woman. Her eyes the same as Orlando's, Draco had only ever seen his sister, Hermione, from afar, and he had never expected to see her as part of a riding party. She had the same small, delicate features as her brother, except his gave him an impish air whereas hers were arranged with the care and distinction of an exquisite doll's crafting. He knew she must be around his age, and even accounting for his, er, _unorthodox tastes_ , he could admit she was a woman of exceptional beauty. Perhaps, in another life, it would have been her he was after, and not her wild-haired companion, who —it seemed— had looked everywhere but at Draco. And Draco, following the uncertainty that seemed to mark today, didn't know whether to be relieved or distraught about that.

"Lord Malfoy!" Orlando declaimed as cheerfully as Sirius had called for his godson. He advanced in long strides across the hall until he was close enough to extend a hand to Lucius. "My deepest apologies for having kept you waiting. If we knew you were getting here early, we wouldn't have gone riding at all!"

Lucius surveyed Orlando's hand, grimy and skid-marked from gripping the reins and being out on the Yorkshire hills, and simply shook his fingertips with the evident disgust of someone handling a rather nasty object. "Not to worry, Lord Orlando, it is good to see you again." He combed the slim boy up and down with his gaze, making no effort to conceal the fact that he was judging his muddy clothes and askew blazer. "So _this_ ," he drawled, again wielding one of his signature insults-disguised-as-compliments, "is the heir to the Earldom of Rosebury."

"The one and only," Orlando grinned back toothily. If he had caught the insult, he didn't show it. "And, hopefully, a host to your liking."

"I have no doubts you will be up to standard," Lucius sneered. Again, if Orlando was aware of the obvious, ironic insincerity, he dismissed it and walked directly over to Lord Black, Harry following suit close behind.

Sirius seemed elated to be the next objective. "So, how was Harry today?"

"Ghastly," Orlando declared.

"That is _not_ fair," Harry protested, shoving Orlando aside so they could stand shoulder-to-shoulder before his godfather. "It's because you took my glasses, and you know I'm completely _blind_ without them, so it's no wonder I took that fall—"

"Tell him, Sirius," Orlando cackled delightedly, "tell him his glasses are a hazard when he's riding."

"My _blindness_ is a hazard when I'm riding!" Harry's voice rose in pitch, and the three men broke out into laughter. For a fleeting instant, Draco envied them: what he would give to unravel himself as comfortably, as sociably, as the three of them were doing. Especially when it came to Harry.

Orlando's sister approached Lord and Lady Malfoy, with the evident intent to greet them, before her mother whisked her off to the side with an iron grip on her forearm. Draco couldn't help but overhear a selection of words from their hissed conversation.

"...out riding... not ladylike... what will the guests think...?"

"...didn't know they were getting here early... bored out of my mind..."

"...wearing trousers...? first all those books, now... no proper lady..."

"...not a doll to prop around the house to your liking..."

Draco disconnected from the eavesdropping then. His observations and deductions had been correct: Lady Amelia was traditional to the point of being asphyxiating, and her older daughter was clearly suffering from an overdose of its effects.

He shifted slightly to the side and suddenly found himself face-to-face with the very man he had been thinking about for weeks before this. Faced suddenly with him, with the very face he now knew to be permanently ingrained into his idle thoughts, he was utterly disarmed.

"You know my son Draco, Mr. Potter?" Lucius's droning voice came as a backdrop to the very sight.

"We're acquainted," Harry said with nonchalance, and Draco felt desolation welling in his chest. _Acquainted_? Was that it? "Good afternoon, Draco— is it incorrect to assume you remember me?"

 _Remember him?_ 'Think of him every waking moment' was more like it. But all Draco eked out in response was, "Yes, of course I do."

"Splendid," Orlando said as he crept up to them, throwing an arm over each of them. But Harry's green gaze stayed locked with Draco's grey one, as if challenging him to be the first one to look away. Draco wanted to defy him, to be the proud Malfoy heir his father took him for, but something about Potter rendered him an idiot. Embarrassed, he tore his eyes away, and thought he detected a triumphant twitch of Harry's expression out of the corner of his eye. "We all know one another, I'm sure we'll get along famously."

Draco gulped and nodded, hoping his grimace would pass for a smile, and Orlando was satisfied. He delivered a hearty palm to each of his friends' backs before moving on to rescue his sister from their mother's clutches.

He was alone with Harry now, and he had no idea what to do. It was evident that Harry didn't, either, because his eyes shifted nervously below his bushy eyebrows as he looked for a plausible next road through which to steer the conversation. 

"So," he finally roughed out, "I s'ppose I'd better go take these boots off, before I continue to track mud all over the house." Draco looked down at the flowered carpet he had disdained earlier. The paisley stitches were darkened in places with the mud Harry's riding boots had introduced to the delicate ecosystem of the house, no doubt a byproduct of the fall Orlando had referred to earlier. _Classic Harry_. "I'll be seeing you later, then."

With a cheeky wink, Harry slid his feet out of the boots and walked, in socks only, back toward the front door of the house to leave his muddy boots outside. As he sauntered away, Draco couldn't tear his eyes from the _derrière_ the fitted riding trousers sculpted out of his rear. _He has to be doing this intentionally_. Draco swallowed and tried, to no avail, to stop looking at Harry's figure before it disappeared back outside. Yes, he definitely would be seeing him later.


	3. A Hiding Place and a Missing Case

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Before beginning this chapter, I wanted to acknowledge that I am well aware with the problematic nature of Draco as a character and Drarry as a ship. I, personally, am more of a Hinny shipper, and I am not the kind of fan to put Draco on a pedestal.
> 
> Nonetheless, this fic includes Drarry because (1) I felt it fit the "impossible love" nature of the premise perfectly, and it allowed me to explore the trope from more than just the 'class differences' angle in a way Hinny would not have; (2) developing the character of Draco beyond canon was a writing challenge I have wanted to undertake for a while; and (3) I am always excited to try my hand at writing for new ships :).
> 
> I hope Drarry doesn't deter you from enjoying this story, and please know that I hear ya and I hope I can do good by the ship! As always, thank you for reading and for your comments. They are always duly appreciated no matter their subject.

Rosebury Grounds was, by excellence, a magnificent estate, but at no time did the estate swank more profusely in its own splendor than when it played host to one of the majestic social events which periodically graced its halls. And tonight was one such night.

The house had put on its best and boldest colors to host a welcoming dinner for its guests, and as ever, it spared no luxury in boasting its enchantments for anyone who stepped foot within it, be it servant or nobleman, who played a part in the dinner that had commanded such grandeur in the first place.

Tonight's dinner was the pride and joy of its hostess, Lady Amelia Granger, not just because of the evident opulence of the house she called her family's, but because the guest list was equally as radiant. The Malfoys, from the Earldom of Ashcroft; Lord Sirius Black III, from the Earldom of Grimmauld; Lord and Lady Macmillan, visiting from Scotland; Amos Diggory, the cultural attaché to Hong Kong; and his counterpart in India, Ajeet Patil, along with the respective families of each of the diplomats. As the guests waltzed along the drawing room, clad in their most elegant gowns and tailcoats and mingling among themselves, it was readily admitted that Rosebury Grounds positively dripped with distinction, tonight being one of those nights that would situate the house as one of the most distinguished ones in the country.

And, hidden in the library, Hermione Granger —daughter and lady of the hosting house— was taking no part in it.

She hated these balls. They were any damsel's dream, but she hated how she was expected to stay among the ladies as they discussed the most superfluous things, hated how she was practically barred from engaging in intelligent topics of conversation that would make her seem _unladylike_ , hated how pompously unlikable the guests were, hated how the events were poorly-disguised pretenses to try to find her a wealthy husband.

And, with her mother avidly hunting for a moment in which Hermione was innocuously standing by some eligible bachelor to 'introduce them', Hermione had already had quite enough and dinner hadn't even started yet.

The library was her refuge, and instead of flitting about like the socialite her mother insisted she be, she was sunken into one of the deep red armchairs that furnished the room, nursing a short glass of scotch in her hand. Disconnected from the social demands of her house and her position, her thoughts were elsewhere occupied as her gaze browsed the endless shelves of the bookcases lining the walls. Unusually for her, she wasn't cradling a book in her lap: instead, she let her eyes comb the spines of the thousands of tomes. What she was searching for, not even she was sure of, but all she had thought about since Ron had helped her through the tunnel the other day was that she was indebted to him, and repayment must come in the shape of a book recommendation. The trouble was picking one to recommend— one that would showcase that she was well-read and not just literate for show, one that would make the handyman swallow his smug words about rich people in libraries, but also one that she knew he was sure to enjoy.

Damned be, just this once, the extensiveness of her father's selection!

The heavy door to the room creaked open, and Hermione was quick to crouch below the armchair's tall back to conceal her presence.

"It's me," a soft voice appeased her, and Hermione relaxed. She knew who it belonged to.

"Harry, what are you doing in here?" she said, pulling out her legs from under her and slipping her feet back into the uncomfortable heels she had discarded onto the rug. She stood to meet him, still holding the whisky.

Harry stood at the far end of the library, by the grand windows with the lush drapes, beside the little table where the crystal jug of scotch —Lord Philip's drink of choice— was always kept with a few spare glasses. "I could ask you the same thing," he smiled at her as he opened the bottle and poured himself a drink like hers, "especially because _ladies_ aren't supposed to retreat into their father's libraries and drink scotch. That's a man's thing."

His words were laced through with a humored irony, and Hermione smiled as she drew closer and stood by him. "Give thanks, Harry. If my father walks in and sees that _you_ are drinking his favorite single-malt, it'll be _me_ to take the fallout."

"Your father? A rageful man?" Harry followed along as he placed the closed bottle back and walked toward Hermione, glass in hand. "Ah, yes, because that is exactly the kind of character I perceive from him."

"Don't let the gentle face fool you. He's prone to fits of ire," Hermione pursued the joke, humoring the idea of her mild-mannered and soft-spoken father as a wrathful soul.

"I'll take your word for it. Cheers," Harry said, clinking his glass against Hermione's. They both took a long sip at the same time, then reclined back onto the wall into which the window was built.

Hermione knew that Harry hated these dinners as much as she did, though for different reasons. She hated them because she hated the doll-like standard 'ladies of her stature' were subjected to; Harry hated them because, having been raised middle-class by his parents before they passed, he had never developed the resigned taste for this superficial world that Hermione had had to learn to uphold if she wanted to keep her sanity. It was just as well, however, because this was their usual spot whenever Harry came round: they'd eventually meet in the library, have a few secret drinks that Hermione hoped to God her father had never taken stock of, and unwind with a chat that poked fun at the party until they were refueled and ready to venture back into the aristocratic jungle. Though Harry got along well with Orlando, he had become a steadfast friend to Hermione, and to rely on him to keep her sane —and keep her silent— during these balls was of incredible value to Hermione.

Tonight they reclined against the wall in silence, watching the fire crackle with a low, primal rumble in the ample marble hearth of the room. Because the library was otherwise unlit (Hermione found the relative darkness made a welcome break from the overly-bright chandeliers of the dining hall and drawing rooms), the fire flooded the library with a warm orange glow, casting dancing shadows along the surfaces of the room. Watching the shadows flicker over the spines of the books she had just been examining, Hermione thought to turn to Harry for a solution to her situation.

"Harry."

"Hm?"

"How does one go about choosing a book to recommend to someone?"

There was a brief silence. "Good question. I suppose my answer would vary based on what your intentions are. Is this a book you want to recommend for literary purposes, or so they can discuss it with you, or a book meant to expose a part of yourself? What is your intention?"

Hearing Harry phrase the act of lending a book so poetically, Hermione felt embarrassed in the truth of her reasons. She cleared her throat: "It's, uh, so I can get back at someone."

Harry chuckled a little. "Well, that's one I've never dealt with before. Can I get some context?"

"You're going to laugh at me."

"Just tell me."

"Fine." Hermione sighed and hoped her story, which was absurd to her in hindsight, would not seem the same to Harry. "I was running from one of my mother's _ghastly_ wardrobe sessions the other day, in an atrocity of a dress, except this time she didn't let me go— she enlisted a _search_ party to go after me."

"No way," laughed Harry. He was a frequent receptacle for Hermione's ceaseless complaints about her unbearable mother and her antics, so he was well-versed in the complicated subject of 'Lady Amelia and her relationship to her daughter'.

" _Yes_ , I know. So I snuck into a woodshed to try to shake them off, but the handyman was in there..." As she spoke the words, she relived their memory: the musky smell of sawdust, the heave of her chest under the corset, the muscular arms rippling under Ron's shirt. She felt a furious warmth rush to her cheeks. Why was the mere thought of him making her blush? She shook it off and continued: "Long story short, there was no way I could get back inside the house without running into my mother or her cronies, and I knew if they caught me I'd have hell to pay before she had a chance to calm down. So he helped me sneak back into the house via a secret passage—"

"A secret passage?" Harry's eyes twinkled with childish interest.

"Let's not go on a tangent. Yes, a secret passage. But turns out, the man uses the passage to get into the library when no one's there and take a couple of books borrowed. He's particularly fond of Shakespeare, as he told me. He said it was because he thought no one would mind, seeing as apparently the rich only use their libraries for decoration." Now the familiar outrage she had felt when she had first heard that flooded back. "Can you believe it, Harry, that he said the rich only use books for decoration?"

But Harry was too busy laughing delightedly to himself, sharing not a single drop of Hermione's indignation.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Really, Harry, how funny is it to assume that us nobles—"

"Hermione," Harry halted her, "you have to remember that _I_ am painfully middle-class, or at least brought up that way. It's my godfather who's noble. So forgive me for thinking this handyman has a spectacularly amusing gall at coming for the _Earls of Rosebury_ like that." He snickered briefly, evidently still relishing in Ron's quip. "But I don't see how this connects to you recommending a book."

Hermione _had_ gone on the very tangent she had sought to avoid, and so she was quick to pull herself back on track. "Ah, yes. So I told him I _did_ read, so he said 'prove it', and apparently my proof must come in the shape of my recommending him a book I've read and I think he'll like."

"This handyman sounds like quite the character," Harry said with admiration.

"I'm sure you would get along."

"No doubt we would. But, back on the subject, I suppose the best strategy here would be to do exactly that, to pick a book that you liked but that you know he will too."

"How do I know what he'll like?"

"He said he likes Shakespeare, didn't he? There's got to be one he hasn't yet read."

Hermione sighed: Shakespeare may as well be endless, so that could not be the only criterion she followed. "I'm going to need more than that."

"Books are also pretty good introductions to people. Who knows? Maybe if you pick a book with a character you admire, or feel connected to, you might end up telling him more about you than you think. And that would save you a lot on the deeper introductions."

 _A book with a character I identify with_. Hm. That was definitely a solid pointer, and one she would take into account when making her selection. "Thank you, Harry. That sounds like a good guide."

"Anytime. But don't expect this to be free of charge— you'll have _me_ to recommend a book to as well."

"I should think letting you have my father's scotch at your will would be payment enough," Hermione smirked, glad to be back on familiar ground.

"Touché," Harry conceded. "And now, shall we go back to the party? We wouldn't want to arouse suspicions. Especially not when I'm now so aware of Lady Amelia's special gift for assembling search parties."

Hermione laughed and set the glass down with a crystalline clink. "Yes, let's head back."

Harry mimicked her and set his own empty glass down with the same glassy sound. Then, a few steps within distance of one another, they walked out of the library, feeling considerably more refreshed and readier to tackle the demands of English high society in its most difficult form.

* * *

Isolated at one end of the table, with Harry seated all the way across from her and Orlando sandwiched between two drowsy old lords a few chairs away, it only took a few minutes into dinner for Hermione to desperately need another library break. On her left sat Lady Macmillan, a chatty, plump woman who had talked her ear off throughout the entirety of the main course. On her right sat a tall, kind-faced man whom Lady Amelia had introduced as Cedric, Mr. Diggory's son. Her intent had been clear: as Cedric had woven off to make small talk with someone else, Lady Amelia had turned to her daughter and said through a forcedly sweet smile: "He's a nice boy, isn't he? And from a good family too, so well-connected…"

She couldn't have been clearer if she'd yelled it for the entire party to hear: Hermione was to think of Cedric as a strong marriage prospect, and that, undoubtedly, had been the sentiment behind the seating arrangement that had placed the two of them in neighboring chairs.

As dessert was served, Lady Macmillan gave Hermione a brief respite as she turned to her left and engaged with Lady Malfoy instead. The stick-thin, sallow-faced woman merely scrunched up her face in a more exaggerated expression of her customary sneer, but Lady Macmillan must have taken it as a smile, because it did not deter her. Hermione, however, was flooded with a wave of relief. Free from her interlocutor for a few moments, she turned to her other neighbor, who eyed her curiously as a spoonful of chocolate soufflé hung near his mouth.

Hermione realized she might have swiveled around in her chair a bit too quickly and awkwardly, so she cleared her throat and tried to diffuse the awkwardness. "So, Mr. Diggory—"

"Cedric, please. Mr. Diggory's my father," the man cut her short. He accompanied his words with a cordial smile, and suddenly, Hermione felt much more comfortable.

"Cedric," she said with a looser smile. "I'm Hermione, Lady Amelia's daughter."

"Trust me, she made that very clear when she was 'introducing me' to the party guests," Cedric said with a slight snort. Hermione's insides crept with embarrassment: leave it to her mother to ambush the poor man with the idea of her as a bride from the very moment he walked into her home. She could only imagine how hellish she had made the whole evening— and how lowly Cedric must think of her. Surely he must think Hermione had set Lady Amelia on him, too shy to approach him on her own. He was, after all, handsome, with a certain aloofness that might come off as standoffishness and might have necessitated the motherly wingwoman for other ladies— but Hermione was not one of them, and she was abashed at even the mere possibility of being taken for one.

"Mr. Dig– _Cedric_ , I'm so sorry," she stammered, trying to clear her name. "It's my mother, she insists on doing these things, I don't know why—"

"You obviously don't want to marry me, don't you?" Cedric again halted her sentence in its tracks.

Hermione fell into stunned silence. She had been sure that Cedric was thinking she was some stupid floozy crushing on him, but without enough gall to admit it, and here he was, saying (accurately) the very opposite?

She opened her mouth to respond, but no words fell out, and her expression remained agape; however, Cedric again swooped in to reassure her: "It's okay. I don't want to either." He paused and his almond eyes widened slightly. "No offense."

"None taken," Hermione said, having regained her powers of speech. She felt a cramp crackle down her fingers: she had been bunching the cloth napkin in a tight fist, unaware of it. She unclenched her fingers and let the fabric fall back to her lap. She wriggled her fingers to coax some feeling back into them. "If anything, I'm relieved."

"Glad we are on the same page, then," Cedric said with another soft smile. He really _did_ have a knack for placing people in comfort, Hermione thought.

"Sorry about my mother, though. She's obsessed with my marriage. Now that Orlando's of age and he's legally capable to be regent of the estate, she wants to get rid of me as quick as I can. Spare the expenses, and all that."

"Not too much motherly instinct, then, I take?"

"Never. But then again, nanny brought us up far more than she did, so I suppose the motherly instinct never had a chance to set in." Hermione scraped the edges of her soufflé mold to collect some of the lingering crumbs onto her spoon. "I also think she might want me out of the way so she can have Orlando all to herself. She might want to be the only woman around him until he gets a wife. If there is a reverse of the Oedipal complex, she has it."

Cedric guffawed, spewing a few crumbs out of his mouth and attracting the attention of their near neighbors. This made Hermione laugh as well, and the both of them pressed their napkins to their mouths to allow themselves to dissolve into snickering with as much propriety as the table commanded.

"The Oedipal complex," Cedric repeated as he put down his napkin when the fits of laughter had died down, still relishing in the joke. "I must say, it is pleasing to meet someone who keeps up with the scientific journals. That's not a joke for anyone to understand."

"Likewise," Hermione said, glad her joke had landed. " _The Interpretation of Dreams_ is still fairly new. I'm pleasantly surprised to have a guest at the table who at least is vaguely aware of Freud."

"I could say the same," Cedric said in the tone of a genuine compliment. "I must say, Lady Granger, it is very pleasing to encounter a woman that reads."

"If it were up to my mother, I wouldn't read at all," Hermione huffed, looking away. "I imagine it must be nice— you must have infinitely more time to read without your parents pushing may-be-spouses upon you."

"Oh, they try," Cedric said nonchalantly. "But I think they know by now it'll be hopeless."

Hermione was intrigued. "How so?"

Cedric's eyes whizzed back and forth between Hermione and the rest of a table. "Can you keep a secret?" his voice dropped to a hush. Hermione nodded. Cedric spoke loudly enough that it allowed for inconspicuousness, since she wouldn't have to lean in to listen, but soft enough that only she would hear. "There is a girl in Hong Kong. A Ms. Chang. She's the daughter of the cultural advisor to the Governor, sort of the local version of what my father does there too. We've met in various functions since we were teenagers, and, well, I daresay I have no interest in anyone other but her."

If Hermione hadn't been relieved before, she was even more so now: Cedric's secret was as good as an ironclad guarantee that he would not allow Lady Amelia to pressure him into marrying Hermione (which she could have, even despite his unwillingness to do so), which meant she could still count on her liberty for some more time.

"I'm sure she's lovely," she said, giving him a smile that both indicated she was happy for him and she was relieved for herself. "If I am ever in Hong Kong, Cedric, you must introduce me to this Ms. Chang."

"I certainly will," Cedric said, the same relief evident in his expression. "Though I should hope, by the time you honor us with your visit, that her family name is a different one."

Hermione was not a romantic person by any conventional standard, but Cedric's words nearly made her swoon. _That_ is what she wanted in a marriage, if ever she were to pursue one at all— unconditional, eager love, not the begrudging resignation of a union of convenience.

"Shall we retreat to the drawing room?" Lord Philip's voice rose from across the table. The guests readily complied: the men were the first to get up, undoubtedly to secure a place at the cards table, and though the women were slower to follow, soon the party was making its way _en masse_ to the drawing room.

Hermione, however, no longer felt the urge to sneak back into the library in a flash: walking with Cedric courteously beside her, she felt reassured in having made a new friend and a new alliance against Lady Amelia, and suddenly the small talk that the drawing room would inevitably imply didn't seem so dreadful anymore.

* * *

If Draco were to make a mental list of the things he hated, post-dinner drawing-room socialization would be at the very top. The mood, sure, had considerably lightened after the routinely formality of dinner, but he still felt no urge to join any of the little cliques being formed around the space.

No, there was only one person he wanted to talk to, but _he_ was elsewhere occupied by the window with Orlando Granger, presumably laughing at one of the younger boy's jokes. Draco had to admit: Orlando, an uncharacteristic friend for the sullen, sourly Malfoy heir, had an irresistible wit and a smile that was even more so. It was evident that he would make a fine Earl of Rosebury someday: his charisma dominated the room— and, Draco noted with some jealousy, Harry's attention as well.

Draco sighed and let himself fall back into the lavish pink sofa under the twinkling chandelier. He waved a footman over for a glass of wine, which he threw back in one gulp before setting the empty glass on the little mahogany table by the couch. His pale complexion was flushing with the rising alcohol already (dinner had seen him chug back two or three glasses to try to ignore how amenably Harry seemed to be getting along with one of those Patil girls), but Draco didn't care: Lord Black was _more_ than a few drinks in by now, and besides, he needed something, _anything_ , to keep his mind off Harry.

Off Harry, and off the fact that he had barely talked to him since their awkward, forced encounter in the hall when Harry had come in from riding and then walked away offering Draco that splendid view of his rear end.

Harry was such a tease, and Draco was on the verge of not being able to take it. So long as he kept drinking, however, he might be able to resist a little longer. But he stopped himself as he was about to wave the footman back: he had never drunk more than a few glasses in one night, and even those had been with a considerable amount of time between them. Draco had never been anything but stone-cold sober, and if he increased the pace of his drinking, who knows what could ensue? He didn't know himself drunk, and he had no intention of finding out what that was like on a night where Harry was this close by and he might do something he would not remember. No: if he was to make a fool of himself, he would do it in full conscience of it.

But if he couldn't drink, how, then, would he distract himself? Because he wasn't particularly keen on approaching anyone for small talk, but he also couldn't stay on this couch sulking forever, especially now that that same Patil girl that had sat beside Harry at dinner was sauntering over to him...

Draco took a deep breath and closed his eyes, seething silently on the couch with his back turned to the gaggle of nobles behind him (among which were, of course, Orlando and Harry). _He could take it_. Surely the Patil girl was just being polite, maybe it was Orlando she was coming on to... But soon a girlish giggle tinkled upward, and that was it: he'd go insane like this. He couldn't drink, he wouldn't socialize, and he couldn't stay on this couch like a statue, eavesdropping on a girl's puerile attempts to flirt with Harry. He needed out.

A brilliant idea came to him then, and he kicked himself internally for not having come up with it earlier. A smoke break! He'd simply step outside politely, walk a few steps outside the house, and lean back against the big stone walls with a cigarette in hand, exhaling grey smoke into the inky night. He could already savor it just from the thought: as his lungs intook and exhaled the nicotine, he knew some of this dreadful anxiety would stick and be expelled with it. Smoking always calmed him, and though his hand was bound to start out shaky at first, it would ultimately be better than staying here and torturing himself with the sound of coquettish interaction. Oh, Draco liked flirting— he just preferred it when it was directed at him. _Especially_ by Harry.

He could almost taste the ashy cigarette on his lips already, and his legs ached to stroll out for a calming walk. All he had to do was reach inside his breastpocket, inside his dinner jacket, and have his fingers close around the cold metal of his—

 _Cigarette case_. Where was it? The breastpocket was empty, devoid of the cool silver rectangle that was a comfort object for Draco in times of dire stress like this. What was he going to do now?

"Where is my cigarette case?" he said out loud, still patting himself all over in search of the case. A few curious heads turned his way and quickly turned away to resume their conversation. This only inflamed him: how dare they look away like he was fleeting entertainment, when he was in such a situation! "Where is my cigarette case?" he repeated, louder this time, and he was sure he heard the level of the party chatter drop in response.

"Draco..." his mother started calmly, reaching out to place a hand on his shoulder, but Draco quickly tore away. "Draco, it's just a case, I'm sure it's here somewhere..."

"It's not," Draco said sourly. "It would be in my breastpocket if it was."

"Are you sure? Have you checked between the couch cushions for it?"

"Mother, I know bloody well where my bloody cigarette case should be, which it bloody _isn't_!" Draco expelled a barrage of swears, letting his hand back against the cushion in frustration. Now Harry and the Patil girl had stopped chatting, and Draco could see Harry staring at him quizzically. _Oh, so this is what it takes to catch your attention_ , he thought venomously. _Well, look on, Potter! That's all I'm good for, anyway, aren't I? Your pet?_

" _Draco_ ," Narcissa hissed, evidently embarrassed at his outburst. "People are looking."

"Well, let them look!" Draco bellowed. The party lulled into a silence. Draco could not for the life of him pin down what was making him act like this. It seemed to be a buildup of everything: his father's coldness, stoking his own inadequacy; Harry ignoring him, playing it off like they'd never met; the dreary dinner by that dreadful Lord Macmillan; the isolation he was undergoing in this drawing room... And, of course, the goddamn cigarette case. That had been the detonator, hadn't it? The last thing he was missing to blow up? "Let them look, mother!"

Now his father had scrambled to his feet to join his wife and his son. "I do not know what you think you're doing," he said in a low tone that dripped with danger, "but you had better stop it while we're in company."

"Oh, company," Draco snorted. "I'm missing my cigarette case —which, need I remind you, is an heirloom of the Earldom of Ashcroft—, and you want me to care about company. Spare me."

"The heirloom doesn't matter," Narcissa said, acutely aware that the party was pretending not to watch yet doing so intently. "The heirloom doesn't matter, Draco darling, it's just a cigarette case—"

"IT'S _MY_ CIGARETTE CASE!" Draco screamed. "It's _my_ cigarette case, and it matters to me, because it should be in my breastpocket—!"

Narcissa wasn't the only one aware that all eyes had turned to the Malfoy family. Hermione, who had lost Cedric a while ago to the diplomatic inquiries of Mr. Patil, had been stuck once again with Lady Macmillan. Considering that the woman now had her piggy eyes fixated on the Earls of Ashcroft, this was the only chance Hermione would have to evade her again.

Quietly, being careful not to stray any attention from the Malfoys, Hermione slipped out of the side door of the mint-colored drawing room back into the library, where the hearth still crackled with the last of the embers.

The sound of chaos in the drawing room (this Draco boy truly did have a flair for the dramatic, and over a cigarette case–!) seeped in through under the doors, but the thick walls of books muffled the sound from disturbing her any further. She was back in her peaceful place, and though pouring herself another glass of scotch might be pushing it, she could now return to the original task that had pulled her to the library in the first place.

 _A book for the handyman_. For Ron. 

Her brief but pleasant conversation with Cedric had served to clear her mind, but now, she rewound through Harry's advice as she ran her hand over the shelves that lined the walls. _A book you like, and he'll like too._ The covers of the leather-bound books were cool to the touch. _Something by Shakespeare._ Her eyes scanned the letters printed on the spines, but no title called out to her. _A book with a character you admire, a character you can see yourself in_. She let her hand continue racing over the spines, her eyes darting along as quickly as they went, trying to seize onto the perfect book.

All of a sudden, she spotted it. Her eyes and her hand stopped over the book at the exact same time, and she couldn't understand why she hadn't thought of this one in the first place. It was perfect, everything she had been looking for. Her hand closed around the spine and she drew the book out with a light rustle. 

Yes, this would more than do.


	4. Rendezvous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Sorry for the absolute dropoff— but, hey, I've applied to one university in the meantime, so it's for a good cause (I hope)!
> 
> Anyway, now that Nanowrimo has come into full swing I have a tangible excuse to pour myself into continuing this fic. This was a chapter I was eager to write, and I hope it's worthwhile payoff for the wait. :)

After the end-of-dinner fiasco, Draco had been quick to retreat to his guestroom. He was in no mood to deal with the diplomatic formalities he surely owed his parents and his hosts: since the Patil girl had begun flirting with Harry, the night had gone to shit, and he had no intention to tread even deeper into the muck he had conjured up to begin with.

Besides, he appreciated the closed solitude that his own room afforded him. Rosebury House had elegant guestrooms that somehow managed to be just as cozy as they were regal. Draco's own was wallpapered in burgundy paisley, which was the same color as the thick bedspread on the sprawling four-poster bed. It had a window overlooking the North of the magnificent estate, next to which was a deep brown chaise longue. There was an armchair in that same deep brown by the bed, with a small table by it, which paired nicely with the dark green rug by the homey hearth, which crackled with a dying fire. Yes, a disastrous night was coming to an end, but enclosed in such a room —which was immensely comfortable and welcoming despite being far from Draco's preferred décor (usually restricted to darker, colder colors)—, he felt an almost warm lull in his own winding-down.

Yes, to be alone was something Draco relished.

The knock at the door, however, was a sure sign that he was to be disturbed even in this simplest of pleasures. Could the evening simply not get worse?

Perhaps if he ignored the knock, he thought, whoever it is might get the hint that he preferred to be by himself and simply leave. For an instant, it seemed as though Draco's strategy had worked: there was silence on the other end of the door. Calm, Draco sank deeper into the chocolate-colored armchair and allowed his eyelids to drop, closed, over his eyes. _Peace, at last_.

And then another knock came.

This time, Draco had to be clearer. "Leave me be, please!" he called, loud enough that he knew it would be heard without disturbing those in the guestrooms by him. But whoever was at his door either didn't hear or chose to ignore it, because the rhythmic knocking now morphed into an insistent rapping, which rose both in volume and intensity the longer Draco went without answering the door.

That was the last straw: whipped up into a fit of ire, Draco practically leaped off the armchair and marched decisively toward the door. Stewing, as he twisted the doorknob open, the hot anger that flowed through his blood itched to give this unwelcome visitor a piece of his mind. He was prepared to let a barrage of unkind words rain down on whoever appeared when the door swung open, and he would have— he would have, had his breath not been knocked back into his chest as soon as the door was clear open into the hallway. Because, on the other side, was Harry.

Harry seemed to be entirely oblivious to the shock he had induced in Draco. "May I come in?" Too stunned to respond otherwise, Draco silently ushered him in and swiftly closed the door behind him.

"Thanks," Harry said, pacing around the room as if to get a good look at it. "I wanted to make sure no one heard me."

Now Draco could speak again. "Where was this want for discretion when you were threatening to break down the door with your knocking, Potter?"

Harry halted in his tracks and spun around to stare Draco dead in the eye. " _Potter_?" He took a few steps closer, slowly, and with each millimeter he inched closer to Draco the blond man could feel the air escaping his body. "Since when am I _Potter_?" He was close now, close enough that Draco could feel the warmth of his breath. Harry's emerald green eyes, the glow of the fire flickering across them, bore deeply into Draco's grey pair. "Or have you forgotten when you called me by a different name?"

"What are you doing here?" Draco exhaled, attempting to conceal the breathlessness Harry had incited in him.

"What do you think I'm doing here?" Harry smiled, taking a step back and allowing Draco some room to lose tension. The mischievous glint was back: "Or, better yet, what do you _want_ me to be doing here?"

"Getting out as soon as possible, I should hope," Draco mumbled, without really meaning it but not knowing what else to say in the wake of Harry's unexpected appearance.

"You get three guesses."

"I'm in no mood for games."

"Fine, we'll do it the boring way," Harry grumbled without losing the idle smile lazing across his lips. Keeping his eyes firmly fixed on Draco, he slowly brought his hand into his coat, digging around the inside pocket behind the lapel for just an instant. When his hand reappeared, it held a familiar silver glint.

"My cigarette case!" Draco cried, darting forward to grab the heirloom from Harry's grasp. His slender fingers caressed it almost lovingly, reveling in the re-encounter with a possession he had thought lost. The elation, however, soon gave way to an accusatory stare directed at Harry: "You took it?"

"Evidently," Harry said.

"Why?"

"Because I know you're a complete drama queen, so you would make a huge fuss about it when you figured out it was missing. You would make sure _everyone_ knew your precious case was lost. That way, it would be understandable if I swung by your room later, because I could tell anyone prying that I was just dropping it off."

The implication was now pushing deliciously into Draco's mind, like a milky fog swaying over the highlands, but he was reticent to interpret it as such without confirmation. "So what you're saying is—"

"I wanted to see you, idiot," Harry exasperatedly completed the thought for him, stepping forward again and draping a hand around Draco's middle with such force that, had Harry's hand not been clasping his back, Draco would've fallen over backward. Even now, he felt his knees buckling.

"You wanted to– you wanted to see me–" he stammered, completely overwhelmed by Harry's proximity. The amount of times he'd dreamed about having Harry's hand find the small of his back again, feeling Harry's warm breath on his cheek, having Harry's lips hover dangerously close to his... you'd think he'd be ready for when it actually happened, and yet here he was, practically melting into a puddle under Harry's coarse touch.

"It's been a while, don't you think?" Harry whispered, pulling Draco even closer so that their chests were now pressed together. In the background, the hearth crackled, manifesting every spark Draco felt flaring up inside him.

"You could say that," Draco laughed breathily, looking anywhere but into Harry's deep green eyes. "I didn't expect you'd be here."

"I got Orlando to invite you," Harry smiled, evidently proud of himself. "He invited me for his birthday, and he happened to mention you offhandedly and how long it had been... it didn't take much to persuade him to extend the invitation to Ashcroft Manor."

"I imagine not," Draco said, trying to conceal with wit how flattered he was. "Knowing Lady Granger, she must have jumped at the opportunity to widen the party."

"Oh, sure, especially with the Lord Malfoy present," Harry said nonchalantly, playing into Draco's coyness for an instant before he bore his eyes back into his. This time, Draco could do nothing to escape his piercing gaze. "But trust me, no amount of social credit could've enthused Lady Granger as much as the prospect of your arrival exhilarated me."

And then he was kissing him, Harry's lips finding their way in between Draco's own thin pair, Draco's usual sneer dissolving into the passion commanded by the kiss. Draco's eyes closed and he felt his body swoon forward into Harry's: _God_ , how long he'd longed for this! How many nights he'd spent imagining exactly this, the very moment when Harry's lips met his again, when the ardor he had spent months craving returned to his body and flooded it with burning heat. And now that he was living it, that his fantasies had materialized, it was better than he'd yearned for.

As the kiss deepened, Harry allowed his tongue to venture into Draco's mouth, pressing into the kiss with even more force, as if sating a dormant hunger. Draco smiled to himself as he eagerly received the stronger kiss: Harry had wanted this as badly as he had. Harry had spent the same weeks dreaming of him, thinking of him, craving him. He returned the increased passion avidly, allowing his teeth to graze Harry's upper lip and eliciting a muffled moan from him. Yes, after all these months, he still knew what made Harry tick.

Finally, they pulled away from one another, chests heaving. Any hint of icy tension had now completely melted, and languished in a quickly-evaporating puddle at their feet.

"Christ, Draco," Harry panted, "if you knew how long I've wanted this."

"It's all I've thought of since we last met," Draco admitted. However, the warmth that flooded his chest upon hearing Harry's words was quickly tinged green by a jealous flash of memory. "And yet you wouldn't have thought that _you_ did, considering how friendly you were being to the Patil girl tonight—"

"Parvati?" Harry answered, cocking an eyebrow in evident amusement at Draco's jealousy. "Oh, she's just an immensely interesting person. You should hear her stories about having lived in India— it's fascinating." Met with stony silence from a cross-armed Draco, Harry brought a hand up to caress his pale cheek. "There's nothing there. You know I only have eyes for you."

"I wouldn't have known it," Draco said, jerking his cheek away from Harry's fingers. "Saying 'we're acquainted', ignoring me all dinner—"

"Will you let it go? I'm here now, aren't I?" Harry said, clasping Draco's hands in his. Draco tried to wriggle away, but Harry only held his hands more firmly. "Draco, look at me. Look at me." Reluctantly, Draco brought his gaze back to Harry's face, which was doused in earnest vulnerability. "I only have eyes for you."

This time, it was impossible not to believe him. "That's reassuring," Draco made one last feeble attempt at being snide, but his hands had softened in Harry's, and he wasn't fooling anyone anymore, not even himself.

"Good," Harry said. "It should be. And now," he began, leading Draco still by the hands toward the bed, "will you tell me what you've been up to all this time?"

"Counting down the days to the next Black family function," Draco said. "Like I said, I wasn't expecting to find you here, again, so much sooner than I was bargaining for."

"That makes two of us," Harry smiled. "The _only_ good reason to look forward to a Black event, I would say."

They had met during the annual reunion of the extended Black family, one of the oldest and snobbiest aristocratic families in all of England, which met every year not because they particularly liked one another but because they enjoyed showing off their new respective luxuries and fortunes. Every time he went, out of commitment for his mother's maiden name, Draco was reminded of the peacocks strutting leisurely around Ashcroft Manor, yet here they clucked loudly about 'fieldhouses' and 'inheritances', rustling their own feathers in a self-congratulatory fashion that seemed to Draco a pathetic masturbation of the ego. But this year's had been different. Because, this year, besides the usually-solitary Lord Black (who was one of the only non-insufferable Blacks at these functions), a lanky, dark-haired boy had appeared, looking around the party with the naiveté of a lost puppy.

Harry had lost his parents earlier in the year, under circumstances Draco had always been too shy to ask and which Harry had not yet voluntarily disclosed, and was now under the tutelage of his godfather, the eccentric bachelor Lord Sirius Black III. As an honorary part of the family, then, it only made sense that he would make his debut— but Draco couldn't blame him for how uncomfortable he looked, stranded in the middle of an overcrowded room and puzzlingly out of place only in the way a tried-and-true middle-class lad could be when surrounded by the utmost echelon of English snobbery.

Draco was not a sociable person by nature, but as it stood, he had two options: either he could stay where he was and listen to his mother and aunt Bellatrix spit venom about how their sister Andromeda had gone and married a farmer (and an Irishman, no less!), or he could venture out of his shell and toward that awfully out-of-place boy by Lord Black.

The choice was clear.

As he approached, Draco caught snippets of the muttered exchange between the boy and his godfather.

"Why I couldn't just stay with Remus, or why Remus couldn't come..."

"Remus hates these things, and how would I introduce him? My _companion_?"

"So why do _I_ have to be here?"

"Godson duties, I suppose. Besides, you're a part of the family."

"Remus, where are you when I need you...?"

Harry's lamentation was cut short when Draco strolled into view, both he and his godfather falling into silence when they spotted him.

"New here?" Draco said, but it came out a little more snidely than he had intended it. His sneering demeanor was second nature to him, but now he had to backtrack to correct it. "I mean– hi, I'm Draco," he said effusively, jaunting his hand forward a little too aggressively to seem fluid.

"Narcissa's boy, huh?" Lord Black smiled in recognition. "Must be right about Harry's age, then. I'll leave you lads to it," he'd said conspiratorially, clapping Harry on the back before disappearing to mingle with the rest of his unbearable relatives.

And there they were, alone, for the first time, in front of one another, and Draco had no idea what to do. Mostly because what the sight of Harry awakened in him was an entirely unprecedented feeling. Draco's mind, an incessant critic, took little time to fixate upon the imperfections of whoever it was he was meeting; Harry, however, utterly disarmed him, made him incapable of formulating any mocking remark in his own mind. Shorter than himself, Harry's skin was slightly less devoid of color than Draco's, and his unkempt hair and crooked ascot suggested he had little knowledge of how to primp himself for these high-class occasions. What gave him away the most, however, was how relaxed he was: slumping backward into the wall, he had little of the all-too-characteristic stiffness the Black family would have won medals for were it an Olympic sport.

Draco should have been entirely in command: he knew these reunions and their inner workings, and he was clearly at an advantage over this poor, clueless boy here— and yet, he had no idea what to say. "So, Harry?" was what he led with, grabbing onto a snippet of what Lord Black had said before he vanished.

"Harry," Harry confirmed, without reaching out his hand to meet Draco's, still extended.

"You look uncomfortable."

"I am," Harry said with a hint of a smile. "My father was a nobleman, but he gave that up to marry my mum. So I have no idea how to behave in these sorts of... contexts, let's say."

This had piqued Draco's interest. "A nobleman?"

Harry nodded. "James Potter. Son of Fleamont and Euphemia."

"I can't say it rings a bell."

"How could it? You would've seen him at these events, and considering he stopped attending when I was born, that would be little short of impossible."

"How come you're with Lord Black now?"

"They're dead," Harry deadpanned, and Draco was suddenly intensely uncomfortable.

"Oh." He gulped. "I'm sorry."

"That's alright," Harry said, looking away. "Not much we can do about it now, anyway."

Draco had absolutely no idea how to respond. Harry, for some reason, already made talking to him an impossible feat, and now he had ladled on a healthy layer of 'dead-relative' awkwardness. So, in a last-ditch attempt, Draco did something unprecedented: he was cordial.

"How would you fancy a look around the house?"

"Pardon?"

"Malfoy Manor, Ashcroft Manor, whatever you want to call it... A tour?"

"I wasn't aware I'd signed up for a museum visit," Harry said. "Besides, this house gives me the creeps."

"It's my house," Draco said, hurt.

"Oh. Sorry," Harry shrugged. "It's a beautiful place, but it's eerie."

For some reason, Draco kept insisting: "I bet if you had a look around it'd be less scary."

"Like I said, I'm not here for a museum visit."

"I'm not talking about the things everyone else sees, idiot. I'm talking about the secret passageways, the hidden nooks and crannies, the locked rooms..."

Now curiosity had alit in Harry, and an incipient smile began to play along his lips. "That could be interesting."

"It's not like you have much else to do," said Draco, the snideness returning, "unless you're really all that eager to become acquainted with the extended Black clan."

That did it. " _Please_ get me out of here," Harry laughed. Peeling his back of the wall, he now stood upright and faced Draco, who was still a good head taller even with Harry at normal standing. "Where do we start?"

The rest of the evening had been the most fun Draco had ever had at one of these ghastly events, slipping in between hollow walls and climbing up dizzying turrets to show Harry every corner of the house he had grown up in and whose trap he had been trying to escape for as long as he'd lived here. With every corner they turned, with every increasingly tight corridor they squeezed into, the two men inched gradually closer until Draco had grown accustomed to the feel of Harry's body right against his, and the light flow of Harry's breath that made the hairs on Draco's nape rise.

The end of the tour had been Draco's room, a stately, impressive chamber with high ceilings and dark décor. The last of the dying daylight filtered in through a tall, narrow window, sending bits of light bouncing off the elaborate chandelier that swung above a four-poster bed with deep violet drapes.

"You must be some sort of vampire," Harry had teased as he'd walked into the room, his eyes eagerly combing every inch of it as if taking it all in. "This room seems a better fit for Transylvania."

"How did you know?" Draco played along, shutting the heavy ebony door behind him. "I've brought you here to show you my coffin."

"A fairly good vampirical host, then," Harry said, sitting down on the wide bed's deep green comforter without waiting for Draco's invitation to do so. "I would have thought it more monstrous."

"Like what?" Draco said, walking over to the bed and sitting down beside Harry.

Their thighs were glued together, separated only by the two fabric layers of their respective trousers, their hands mere inches away from one another on the duvet and their faces hovering close together. Draco's heart was beating so loudly he was surprised it hadn't burst out of his throat already. He felt a stream of blood rush into his cheeks and throb there, hoping the faint glint of the dusk would conceal his blooming blush.

"Like..." Harry began softly. His tone had changed now: far from the upbeat, joking voice he had employed throughout their whole tour, he now spoke in a lower, sultry lull. "Like, I don't know... I would've thought you would... _bite me_."

And that was when Draco had leaned forward and closed the gap between them, turning Harry's words into a fulfilled prophecy, and the rustling of bedsheets and quick discarding of a few garments on the floor had made Draco the most thankful he had ever been for a closed door and the heavy padlock slid into place there.

Now, facing Harry on the bed at Rosebury House, in almost an exact parallel to where it had all begun in Ashcroft Manor, Draco felt the same rush of heat and weakness course through him, as if this was the first time he had been this close to Harry. He felt the same uncertain expectation throb through him, that same limbo-like feeling of not knowing whether they'd take the plunge or end up backing out.

"Draco," Harry whispered, bringing him out of his memories and back to the present. _Burgundy paisley. Deep brown chaise longue. Green rug and fireplace_. But Harry's eyes spoke with urgency, and Draco sensed their time was running out.

"I'm glad you've come," he hurried to say. Now it was his turn to take Harry's hands in his, hold them firmly to his chest, press a gentle kiss down onto the knuckles of each. "I truly am."

"How could I not?" Harry smirked, basking in the warm tingling Draco's kisses sent through his hands and into his core. "But I really should be going."

"No," Draco whined, his hands closing even more tightly around Harry's. "No, don't go."

"Draco, I have to," Harry sighed, disentangling one of his hands from Draco's grip to brush his pale cheek with his fingers. "It's getting late, and there's only so long you can spend returning a cigarette case, and I wouldn't want to arouse suspicion—"

"Nobody saw you," Draco whispered, bringing his own free hand up to cup Harry's and keep it pressed against his cheek. "Nobody knows you're here. Except me, and _I_ want you to stay here."

"I'd make this _my_ guestroom too if I could, trust me," Harry chuckled lightly. "But what would your father say?"

"I don't care."

"You'll care when there's daylight," Harry said somberly.

He was right, and Draco knew it. Harry had to get going. But every fiber of Draco's body that _wasn't_ his rational mind yearned for Harry to stay, for Harry to infuse him with the warmth he'd been lacking during his uncertain absence. And when every fiber of your being is arguing for something, it's hard to ignore, and it's much easier to shut down your power of reason and cave to the wave of sensuality that threatens to overtake you.

"Stay," Draco pled. 

"I can't," Harry said, and he sounded truly sorry. _Well, at least there's that._

"Stay, please."

"Draco, as much as I want to, I can't."

"Please," Draco continued to urge him. But he'd had an idea now— and, with any luck, it would work. Draco released Harry's hands and clambered over to the other side of the bed, where he took no time to undo the silken robe around him and let it pool at his feet. He now stood, almost entirely bare except for his underwear, before Harry— and yet, instead of vulnerability, he felt an almost awesome sense of power, knowing that Harry couldn't tear his eyes from his slender frame even if he'd wanted to.

"Trying to seduce me into staying?" Harry said, his voice coming out in a low growl that suggested it was working.

"Not everything is about you, Potter," Draco now reveled in having the upper hand so as to tease him. "I'm just getting ready for bed here."

Bare as he was, Draco unfolded the neatly-made bed and slipped between the covers, allowing them to bunch at his midriff so that his chest was still visible (and raised, even, thanks to the downy pillows of the four-poster). "See? Bed."

"Tease," Harry let out, letting on just how badly he wanted to mimic Draco.

And now the main objective was back. "Stay, please," Draco whispered, his snideness melting into a genuine plea. "Until I fall asleep."

"What excuse do I give anyone who asks?" Harry protested, but he was already taking off his shoes and discarding his jacket over the back of the armchair by the bed.

"It doesn't matter," Draco said, his chest bursting with the same joyful anticipation it had struggled to cage in ever since he'd seen Harry walk into the main hall in his riding getup. "You'll think of something."

"I'll think of something," Harry echoed, and now the entirety of his outfit except for his own underwear had joined his dinner jacket on the armchair's back. "But I'll leave as soon as you're asleep."

"As soon as I'm asleep," Draco promised, knowing full well whatever the night now held in store was anything but restfulness.

"We have a deal."

"I swear."

"Good, then," Harry said, slipping into bed beside Draco. He emanated warmth below the covers, and Draco squirmed involuntarily knowing his own cold skin would soon be warmed by the touch of Harry's. "As soon as you fall asleep, I'm gone."

"You're gone."

"We'd better get to it, then," Harry said, and reached over to the nightstand to turn out the solitary lamp. As the light died, leaving behind only the feeble glow of the dying embers, Draco basked in the dark wash of nighttime over the room and, as Harry rolled closer to him, prepared to melt into the secret sweetness of a night full of kisses.


	5. Much Ado

Finding Ron without arousing suspicion was proving much harder than Hermione had expected.

To begin with, there was the fact that members of the family were forbidden from venturing into the servants' quarters, considering it undignified. Besides, Hermione hated to breach the privacy of a house staff that likely had little else but contempt for her and her relatives. But there was also the fact that Ron was not part of the house staff, so he would not be living in the attic with everyone else— where he _could_ be, however, Hermione had no idea. And, lastly, there was the fact that she wasn't precisely inconspicuous: in a high-necked white lace blouse and a floor-length blush-pink skirt, she stood out among the dreary gray uniforms of the scullery maids and the sharp black of the footmen, and every step she made was restricted by the skirt's stiffness. Plus, she was carrying a book under her arm, which would doubtlessly attract unwelcome questions.

She had a strategy: she steered well clear of Norma and the other valets and lady's maids, and instead just asked the lesser staff, like the scullery maids and the hall boys. Their low position on the staff hierarchy, which was an advantage to stealth, was nonetheless a disadvantage to actual information, as none of them had any idea or any way of knowing where Ron might be. After the tenth staff member who was just able to give her a shrug and an "I'm dreadfully sorry, m'lady," she knew she had to switch plans.

She descended the secondary staircase to avoid any confrontation with her mother, who would no doubt inquire about her whereabouts. Once on the ground floor, she stuck her head out of the door a bit to peer at the main lobby and quietly slipped out the front door, convinced she wasn't being watched.

Once outside, on the grounds, she walked briskly on the grass and away from the gravel path toward the gardeners' quarters. She had never been here before, but she'd often seen Pierrot make his way in, and the other groundskeeping assistants also slipped in and out regularly. She didn't presume Ron would be here, but thanks to its status as an outdoors 'headquarters' of sorts, it would safely be a good place to start.

She got to the quarters, housed in a brick structure right by the stables, and knocked carefully on the door.

"A moment, please!" came a gruff voice from inside. Pierrot's timbre, reedy and lithe, was a far cry from this voice. Whosever it was, however, Hermione hoped its owner might be able to provide her with the answer she needed.

She tried to come up with a lie on the spot to justify why she needed to see Ron— the truth (that she was going to lend him a book) would not fly well with most of the estate staff, and would be sure to reach her mother, especially if Pierrot was pulled into it. Maybe part of her bedframe had come loose. Maybe the draperies by the window had slipped free of their rungs. Maybe —that was it!— her sink had broken.

Satisfied with this last lie, she felt prepared as the door began to creak open, and began speaking before it was fully so: "Good morning, I wondered if you knew—"

The words were knocked out of her lungs along with the wind, for below the doorframe, so tall his forehead nearly bumped into it, was Ron himself, looking amused and seemingly delighted at her appearance. He leaned against the doorframe casually, and parried her silence with a quip of his own: "Would I be arrogant to presume it's me you're looking for?"

Stupefied, Hermione began to stammer something, but Pierrot's wheeze came from inside: "Who is it, Ronald?"

"A moment," Ron whispered, then craned his neck to look backwards. "The young Lady Granger, sir!"

"Lady Granger?" Pierrot cried. His hearing wasn't all that sharp, and Hermione was sure he thought she was her mother. "Well, what does she want, boy?"

Hermione regained her power of speech. "Fixing my sink," she mumbled.

"Her sink needs fixing, sir!" Ron called out without questioning it.

"Best get on with it, then," Pierrot began a reprimand, but before he had a chance to continue, Ron had called out a farewell and had shut the door behind him. Now he was on the stone doorstep, Hermione on the grass in front of it. She was suddenly aware that, again, they were alone. The thought, somehow, both soothed and unnerved her.

"Tell me: is it really the sink?" Ron broke the silence, descending the two steps down to be at her level. Even on the grass, he was considerably taller: Hermione was already short, but Ron must be above six feet, and his grin loomed over her.

"It's not the sink," Hermione admitted.

"So what makes me fortunate enough that the Lady Granger has paid me a visit?"

"I'm not _the Lady Granger_ , Ron, that's my mother," scoffed Hermione.

"I know," he smiled, a lopsided smile that set his face off asymmetrically, tipping the balance of freckles on either side of his nose. "I'm teasing."

In the world of stiff sarcasm, backhanded compliments, and double-edged remarks that characterized aristocratic circles, Hermione was not used to something being said in good fun, but Ron radiated a genuine good-naturedness. She relaxed, feeling her shoulders loosen but her corset tighten as she let the air out along with the tension.

"Well, I'm here to pay off a debt." She grabbed the book tucked under her armpit, a thin, burgundy-leather-bound tome with yellowed pages and a ribbon peeking out the bottom. "To recommend a book."

Ron took the book and turned it over in his hands, examining the delicate binding and expert cut of the leather. "What is it?" Ron asked, despite the title being engraved in gold leaf on the spine, and it occurred to Hermione that he was giving her the chance to introduce what she'd brought.

"Still Shakespeare, but a comedy now," she explained. His eyebrows raised approvingly, and she felt satisfied in her pick. " _Much Ado About Nothing_."

"What's it about?" said Ron, now lifting the cover to look at the inbound page and run a callused finger across the delicate paper.

"I don't know how to explain it," Hermione said. Shakespeare wasn't something you read for the plot, you read it because it was _Shakespeare._ That the plots were phenomenal was a side benefit, but that they were so convoluted was a genuine pain when it came to explaining, and name-dropping Shakespeare usually did the trick. She should've known that it wasn't likely to suffice with Ron. "But it's basically a marriage comedy, even though the delight in it isn't really the story, it's the two main characters: Benedick and Beatrice."

"Could pull a few jokes from that chap's name," Ron snorted.

"It's what Shakespeare would've wanted," she smirked.

"Why are they such a delight?"

"They're really rather irritating to one another, but it's the banter between them. They tease each other wittily and incessantly, because they find their intellectual equal in one another. Both swear they'll never marry, and are especially revolted by the other, sort of a playful rivalry thing. And then—"

"They fall for each other," Ron finished.

"You've spoiled it."

"It's Shakespeare. They all sort of end like that. There was nothing to spoil," Ron snorted again, letting the book slip from his grasp. It landed on the grass with a soft thud.

Hermione was astounded at how derisive he was of Shakespeare, to the point he'd dare let a play of his fall to the ground. Bunching up her skirts in one hand, she leaned over (a tremendously difficult feat with the crinoline and corset) and grabbed it, dusting it off once she was back upright. "Uncultured," she muttered as she squinted, trying to discern whether that spot on the corner of the cover was new.

"I'm not uncultured, I'm just _critical_ ," Ron said, prying her fingertips off the cover to grab the book again. This time, he let it hang in his hand at the side of his body. "I'm just saying, the man's pretty predictable. Not an action story, really."

"You can't really expect a thriller from Shakespeare."

" _Macbeth_ was pretty close," Ron smirked. He sighed, overdramatically. "Fine, Lady Granger. I _will_ read your dastardly play, but I have to say, if the banter does not measure up to what you have made it out to be, I will be pretty disappointed."

"It will be," Hermione sprang fiercely to the defense of her favorite comedy. "I can't believe you've read _A Winter's Tale_ but not _Much Ado_."

"Well, I'll read it tonight," Ron said, waving the book in his hand to call her attention to it. "From what I hear, the Earls of Rosebury are hosting a dinner party tonight, so I'll do what all the _dirty, dirty_ grounds staff are expected to do in these occasions: remain in my quarters and remain unseen. Should give me plenty of time to read."

"Why are you so insolent?" Hermione blurted out. "Don't you know if my mother, or any of her lackeys for that matter, were to hear you saying something like that you'd lose your job on the spot?"

"See, Lady Granger," Ron said, cocking an eyebrow upward and letting the book rest on his hip, "what you don't seem to understand is that I don't much care about my job. That's where I differ from all those starchy-collar, bowtie-wearing types indoors: I don't worship the ground the nobility walks on, as if by being a kiss-arse I was somehow part of the sphere whose scraps I'm supposed to be thankful for."

"Those are decent, venerable jobs," Hermione argued, thinking of Gramsley, the butler, and his small army of footmen. "They have a mission, a purpose, and they enjoy it, and I don't see why—"

"Of course you don't, because they work for _you._ "

" _You_ work for me too," Hermione snapped.

"Sounding a lot like your mother," Ron pointed out, but before she could retaliate, he continued. "Anyway, I too have a purpose, but not as a handyman until my inevitable arthritis gets me fired without a pension by the dragoness of the castle. The world is changing, and I intend to make myself a place elsewhere, but not here." He put his palm to his forehead and gave her a mocking salute. "See you around, _milady._ "

Without another word, he walked past her, toward the woodshed, whistling a light tune and swinging the book back and forth carelessly. Hermione swiveled to eye him, but he was paying her no mind, and all he could do was glare daggers at his back.

 _I definitely do not like him_ , she thought, still seething at how lowly Ron had spoken of the traditions that made up the fabric of her daily doings. _Who does he think he is, anyway, to bite the hand that feeds him?_

Those thoughts still plagued her mind as she made her way, silent and sullen (which her mother interpreted as ladylike composure), to the farewell dinner for the Diggorys. Draped in a squealing-pink, lace-layered and tasseled gown that her mother had chosen and that resembled the draperies in the salon more than a fashion-forward dress, she was of little conversation to Mrs. Patil and Lady Malfoy, who had now been her dinner companions. Harry, across the table from her, was seemingly so immersed in a back-and-forth with young Ernie Macmillan that he didn't notice her silence, but even if he had, she wouldn't have known how to explain it.

 _It_ , in question, was an overcrowded thoughtfulness that pitted everything she knew and valued against everything she felt she should believe in. Of course the world was changing, that much was true. But did that give Ron the right to behave like this? Did she have a right to complain that he spoke to her as he would to any other person? Did she secretly harbor her mother's superiority and believe her title somehow entitled her to special treatment, despite her recoiling at the duties of her position?

Her pensiveness jumped from outrage to stupor to disappointment to anger to disbelief, but as her mind flicked through images of their argument, it kept coming back to Ron, unkempt and undaunted. She tried to picture what he was doing now: was he reading the book, as he said he would? Or had he tossed it to the side, laughing at her, the stupid, silly rich girl who had thought she'd measure up to him? Was he out fixing something on the estate, doing the job he said he hated?

A few dozen feet away, in a dim stone cottage room, Ron was asking himself similar questions. He'd cracked open the play and let the dying candlelight flicker across its pages, making the inky letters waver in its wake, but he'd had to put the book down after getting halfway through. As he read, his subconscious had gone over his earlier exchange with Hermione, gradually moving to the forefront of his mind and gaining in volume in a way that Ron could no longer ignore it. So he didn't, but he didn't tackle it either: instead, he dove into the reticent curiosity he felt budding.

What color gown was she wearing? What might be for dinner? Was she dreadfully bored, as he imagined she was at these events, or had the dull cream of the crop of English society finally yielded someone interesting enough to keep her engaged?

He scoffed at himself. _Look at you. She lends you_ one _book and suddenly you can label everyone in her life as interesting or uninteresting._ He was reminded —suddenly, painfully— of his own position: he was a lowly, poor handyman who'd only taken this job to make his mother proud, and she was a princess in all but title who had stooped low enough to condescend a bit of her life and rub elbows with _the help_. He was having delusions of grandeur.

He let out a frustrated huff, turned over in bed, and blew out the candle on his nightstand. The book abandoned on his blankets, he stared out at the stony darkness and tried to sink into a sleep that only turned into a background against which all his thoughts were amplified.

And so the evening went for the both of them, both ruing their encounter, neither knowing how strongly the other was thinking of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone!
> 
> Sorry for the brief hiatus, but these past two months have been overtaken by my college applications and school finals. I'm happy to report it's paid off— I already gained admission to one of my top colleges, and I have a good feeling about the rest!
> 
> Thank you all for your patience, kindness, and good wishes. I hope to update more regularly and bring you all the story you're here for. :)


	6. Telephone, M'Lady

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friendly reminder that there is a Pinterest board for this fic (and for every chapter!). If you want to visualize what goes on in my head as I write RG, feel free to check it out at https://www.pinterest.com.mx/rosequartzstars/rosebury-grounds/

This visit had not, at all, gone as Lady Amelia had expected.

That much had been confirmed this morning, when she had caught Cedric Diggory exiting the dining room after breakfast (she, herself, never sat at the breakfast table, taking it in bed as all proper married ladies did) and had attempted to entrap him in small talk.

"How did you find the breakfast, Cedric darling?" she had cooed, trying to look as regal as she could while well aware that her necklace was slightly offset (the early-morning state of disarray, Good Lord!). "Our cook makes the most excellent eggs, didn't you think?"

"Most excellent," Cedric had agreed with a polite smile. "Right at their most tender point."

"It delights me to hear so. And how," she had insinuated, her intent crystal clear as she snuck it into the seemingly-harmless conversation, "did you find the rest of the, _ah_ , of the _house_ during your stay?"

Cedric was quite bright, and he had known exactly what she meant immediately. "I'm sorry, Lady Granger, but I'm afraid I will be unable to give you what you want."

Agog at being caught quite so soon, Lady Granger had feigned puzzlement: "Why, I ever—"

But Cedric had seen through that. "I know it must come across as quite a disappointment, but I will not marry your daughter. Not for any sum, not for any reward. Firstly, because my attention is elsewhere committed; but secondly —and perhaps most importantly— because neither of us are particularly keen on marrying one another."

At this, Lady Amelia had sputtered: "Why, Hermione would— she'd be delighted—"

Cedric had merely tilted his lip further upward, that lopsided smile of his that made one weaken, made one feel as if in presence of a mightier being. "With all due respect, Lady Granger, I hope you will allow me to correct this illusion by telling you that your daughter does not, in the slightest, wish to marry me. I mean no insolence by this, but it might do you well to ask for her thoughts more often. As for myself, though I consider Rosebury House to be a most noble estate and hold the family it houses in the highest regard, I have not the smallest desire to marry into it." His smile had shifted yet again, acquiring a more playful quality. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I must get done with my packing if the coach is to depart in time for the train station. But thank you, earnestly, for your hospitality. I have not tasted better eggs anywhere else."

And, as if he had not trampled over the sum of her hopes and expectations, as if he had not dashed them through with his smooth politeness, he had given her a small nod and turned to venture up the stairs toward his guestroom.

Now, as she watched him leave with suitcase in tow (carried by one of the hall boys), all Lady Amelia could think about was how perhaps it had been good riddance after all. It was out of spite, and she knew it, for Cedric was truly a rather splendid young man and one anyone would like to have had as a son-in-law, but in her twisted little heart, Lady Amelia preferred the path of haughtiness, ascribing his refusal not to a stroke of will but to an unworthiness of the Granger relation. _Better for us_ , she told herself, and this made her feel slightly better.

Still, she could not bear to see him moving gracefully, almost shining in the late-morning light as he bid his hosts farewell, because to look upon him was to be reminded of what a chance had slipped right through her clutches, and thus to be reminded that her air of superiority was nothing but a fiction.

So Lady Amelia tore her eyes away, and so she didn't see the grateful nod which Hermione exchanged with Cedric as he exited.

 _Thank you_ , Hermione mouthed soundlessly as she extended her hand for Cedric to kiss it, as was expected of such a farewell. _No problem_ , he mouthed back as his lips dropped to meet her hand.

Lady Amelia did not see this, just as she did not see the rest of the departures, for at that moment Gramsley, the butler, rushed up to her. "Telephone, m'lady."

His interruption was just as well, because her fiction was beginning to crumble the more she thought about Cedric leaving Rosebury. So she pulled up the skirts of her matronly frock, a (rather ugly) brown floor-length dress with a dotted pattern and lace frills on the sleeves and collar, and swiveled on her heels to turn her back on the door and follow Gramsley into the small corridor by the main foyer where the telephone was.

"Hello?" she said into the receiver, a little too loudly (she was only just beginning to get the hang of this rather new artifact).

"Amelia, darling? Is that you?" a lightly-accented but sprightly voice came over the speaker.

She recognized it immediately: "Aileen, darling! It has been too long!"

"It has indeed!" Aileen, on the other side, laughed. "I managed to get ahold of your number, however. I merely had to go through several pesky operators first."

"Direct dial is such a blessing," Amelia said, parroting the words that she'd heard her husband speak about the telephone before, though in reality she seldom dialed and was therefore unacquainted with whether there was indeed a difference between going through an operator or calling directly.

"I do believe it, but you know old Lord McLaggen— as cheap as a thimble. He'd rather rub elbows with every telephone operator in Scotland than spend a penny on telephonic convenience," Aileen laughed, seeming to delight in poking fun at her husband.

"Well, I'm ever so glad you went through that nuisance to call me," Amelia said, trying to steer the conversation away from the McLaggen marriage, which she had always envied. Lord Angus McLaggen clearly adored his wife (though Aileen, and Amelia would never admit that this is where they differed, was of easier character and sunnier disposition and thus did not make it particularly difficult). "But to what do I owe the pleasure of your call?"

Aileen McLaggen got right to it: "I heard that Orlando turned eighteen scarcely a few days ago, didn't he?"

"He did."

"Well, Angus and I were just discussing the other day how it has been a while since Glencarrion has hosted guests. Then he told me that he'd spoken to Philip, and he'd said his boy had come of age now, and we both thought it might be the perfect occasion to host him up here for a few days. What do you think?"

"I think it sounds lovely," Amelia said, somewhat bitter at the fact that this invitation seemed not to include her, "but I'd have to ask Orlando and his father—"

"Oh, please," Aileen interrupted her cheerfully. "It has been a dreadfully long time since we've seen him, and I know that Cormac would very much enjoy having someone his age around for a few days."

At this, a keen interest sparked in the back of Lady Amelia's mind. She turned on her sweetest, most artificial voice, almost lowering into a coo: "And how _is_ dear Cormac?"

If Aileen had divined any intention in Amelia's voice, she didn't let it on. "Quite well, you know, growing into quite the handsome young man! He's been rather busy lately, what with learning the business of running the estate, he's practically become his father's shadow on their weekly tours of Glencarrion and the surroundings."

"It sounds busy, but no doubt he can handle it, at his age and everything," Amelia continued. She made her next question sound as innocent as possible: "And how old is he, again?"

"Twenty-five," Aileen said proudly.

The nagging idea in Lady Amelia's mind had come to fruition. Oh, Orlando was going up there, but not solely on friendly business. And as she glanced toward the door, where the Diggorys' carriage was turning to head for the main road, she began to think that perhaps it _had_ been a blessing in disguise after all. He could, as she now began to see, be replaced quite easily. So she chose her next words very carefully: "It might do Orlando good to be around someone who's learning to take charge of an estate. But speaking of older children, I presume you remember my daughter, Hermione...?"

* * *

Memories, Draco had always thought, were like particularly loved walking shoes, or like a steadfast quill: they were reliable, but they easily wore out with use. So as he sat in the carriage, looking out at Rosebury House as the coachman readied the horses to follow the Diggorys' coach, he tried _not_ to think about last night as hard as he could. Harry had come back after dinner, and this time, Draco hadn't had to ask him to stay.

But it was to no avail. He couldn't stop savoring the phantom taste of Harry's kiss on his thin, pale lips; he couldn't stop shivering every time he thought about the warmth of his bare skin against his own; he couldn't stop ruing the absence of Harry's wide hand on the small of his back, where he knew Draco was most sensitive... He tried to shake the thought from his head. No, the more he called upon that memory know, the more faded it would be when he tried to recall it later, once he was alone and back in drafty Ashcroft Manor, away from his warmth, from his breath, from his touch—

No! He must stow it, stow it and keep it under lock and key until he truly craved it. He tried, instead, to sate himself on the sight of Harry chatting casually with Orlando by the large front oaken doors, his hair looking tousled as ever. He probably hadn't even run a comb through it since it had rolled around on the pillows— _Drat_. It was of no use. Even the smallest sight, the smallest thought, of Harry was enough to hail Draco back to the last two nights.

But could he really be blamed? When you've been to heaven and back over the space of some thirty-six hours, a heaven that was denied you for months and which you feared you'd ever recover, can you really be blamed for wanting to relive it?

And to think Harry was going to stay for a few more days! He'd depart for London soon, but upon Orlando's request, Lord Black had agreed to stay back until Tuesday before returning to Grimmauld Place. To think of Harry sleeping alone, splayed out in that messy sleeping style of his, in a lush bed all to himself, made Draco so angry it nearly hurt. And he couldn't keep looking at Harry, he just couldn't, because if he did, that thought would be concreted into longing and it would hurt even more.

His gaze dropped instead to the impeccable floor of the carriage, trying to fixate on anything, be it a poorly-wiped bootprint or the slightest iota of dust, that might distract him from his yearning. So concentrated was he on trying to do it that he didn't see his father standing out the carriage door until he knocked angrily on the little window in the door, which Draco hastened to open.

"Distracted?" Lucius sneered as Draco opened it.

"No, father."

"Good. Then you will know that we're not leaving right now."

"We're not?" Draco asked dumbfoundedly. Was this for real?

"No, we're not," Lucius enunciated slowly, mockingly. "Lord Philip and I have some estate business we have to tend to, concerning the affairs of Ashcroft and Rosebury. We're seeking to build an outpost in London, as we have only houses there, but nothing official. Considering that Lord Black is here, and he seems to be _quite the expert_ at urban construction thanks to his _Grimmauld Place_ , Lord Philip believed this might be a good opportunity to discuss while we were all still here. Against my better wishes, I happened to agree."

In other instances, Draco would've internally sighed as his father's condescension toward someone he was very clearly benefiting from, but he was too awestruck to do much else other than sit and gape at Lucius.

Lucius grew impatient: "Well, did you hear me or not, Draco? Get out of the coach!"

Draco scrambled out of the cab, nearly tripping over his own feet as he did so, and steadied himself once he felt his feet dig into the gravel around Rosebury House. _He wasn't leaving_. He was staying, and what's more, Harry was too.

Evoking a measure of dignity and forcing his spine into ramrod-straightness, Draco walked slowly back toward Rosebury House, no longer taking heed as his father scolded the footmen for how they were unloading their luggage. _He was staying_.

"Staying after all, Master Malfoy?" the butler, Gramsley, asked politely as he reached the small cohort of people by the door.

"It appears so," Draco gave him an uncharacteristic thin-lipped smile as he continued to make for the house.

As Draco passed Harry, he heard an ever-so-slight mutter escape Harry's lips, a sultry whisper that made the hairs on the back of Draco's neck bristle with anticipation. "Lucky me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yet again, I must apologize for my inconsistent update! It feels like every time I say I'm gonna have more time to update I get swamped with fifty new deadlines. This update is a bit more plot-related, but I hope it's good! I'm trying to find more time to write, but what with college interviews and senior-year deadlines, I have been a mess lately.
> 
> Thank you so much for continuing to read, and I hope I can continue to write what you enjoy!


	7. In the Rose Garden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I must thank the lovely accio_broom, Folk_melody, cheesyficwriter, and the rest of the Romione Discord server for encouraging me to churn out another update so soon! Your feedback is such a powerful motivator and I hope you enjoy the Romione in this one. I have gifted this fic to you in gratitude for your kind readership and your constant encouragement. Thank you for welcoming me so eagerly into the community!
> 
> (And, as always, if you would like some images to picture Hermione's dress and the little rose garden as you read, I've got a RG Pinterest board with a section for every chapter... Check it out! https://pin.it/4RyP3Oq)

She would never admit it, because she felt like it made her exactly into the kind of dainty little lady she avoided looking like at all costs, but on sunny mornings like this, Hermione was glad to have her parasol. The delicate white-lace umbrella, which paired nicely with her simple white long frock, made her stand out against the lush green of the estate garden as she took her post-breakfast stroll.

She treasured these moments, away from her mother, because Lady Amelia believed morning strolls were unbecoming and much preferred their post-luncheon counterparts. So Hermione usually walked alone, or sometimes her father came along with one of the dogs, or Orlando made her laugh as they walked around the house. But this morning, she was alone, and she cherished this solitude mostly because it gave her precious time to think. This morning, however, her pensiveness was but an afterthought, because with the relief of Cedric's amicable departure the prospect of being pushed into marriage had been (temporarily, she knew) vanished from her mind. She was enjoying just _being_ , without a preoccupation so tangibly in her consciousness, and there was no better place to just _be_ than a luscious estate on a clear-blue morning.

She turned down the little gravel path toward the secluded rose garden to the west of Rosebury House, the counterpart to the circlet of staff's cabins on the east. This was one of her favorite spots on the entirety of Rosebury Grounds: in it, the air was sweet and fragrant, and the relative peace that came from being (apparently) sheltered from the rest of the estate gave Hermione the sense of freedom that came with evading her mother's clutches.

She breathed in the perfume of the roses with relief as she entered the small circular garden, which had several little paths that, like spokes of a wheel, all led toward a small birdbath in the center of the colorful flowers. Though roses blossomed all over the estate, in fact giving it its name, nowhere were they as magnificent and sweetly as in this little spot. At the far end of the garden, parallel to the entrance pathway, was a low bench crowned by a circular arch of pale pink roses. This is where Hermione was headed: the shade from the rose canopy would let her put down the parasol for a bit and refresh her sore arm, and the bench was a perfect spot for reading.

She walked slowly to the bench and closed her parasol gently, standing it against the bench as she produced, from the folds of her dress, the small volume she was currently reading. Scarcely had she sat down and cracked it open to the page she had bookmarked when a low voice came through the bushes behind her: "Good book?"

Hermione was so startled that she dropped the little book, which went fluttering face-down to the floor, lying helplessly prone and open with its spine facing the clear blue sky. Hermione, herself, jumped a little bit in her chair and drew a gloved hand to her chest, intaking a sharp gasp as a redheaded face emerged, laughing, from the bushes behind the archway.

"Lord almighty," Hermione mumbled, disliking how much like her mother she sounded as her heartbeat steadied itself. "You scared me half to death."

Ron climbed out of the bushes, pushing his way out through the prickly branches, and slung a leg over the back of the bench to boost himself to the other side. Once there, he sat primly next to Hermione and turned to her with a toothy grin. "Well, that was kind of the point."

"What are you doing here?" Hermione said indignantly. "You're intruding on my reading-time," she complained (though, surprisingly even to herself, beneath the irritation was what she thought might be... gladness to see him?).

"I know the thin spots in the bushes— I help Pierrot with the trimming sometimes," Ron shrugged, picking a small leaf out of his hair. "I saw you walking down here, so I thought I'd sneak around the shortcut and give you a little surprise."

"A _heart attack_ is more like it," Hermione said, bending over to pick up her book from the floor and swatting him lightly with it. Ron laughed and rubbed his shoulder lazily. She sighed. "Great. Now I've lost the page I was on."

Ron seemed to pay her no mind as he sidled closer to her, the dirt on his clothes speckling her white dress. "I'm glad to catch you reading, actually, because that's just the thing I've come to talk to you about."

"Oh?" Hermione said, flipping through the pages to find the one she'd left off on.

"I finished the book," Ron said, and only then did Hermione notice that one of his hands had been behind his back nearly the whole time, since he now drew it forward to hand her the slim book she'd lent him. " _Much Ado_? The one you made such a fuss about?"

"The opportunity for a witty pun was right there," Hermione chastised him as she took the book from him. It was well taken care of, she noticed, without a smudge on the pages or new cracks in the spine and cover. It was evident that Ron had read it with care. "You finished it so fast?"

"Quick reader," Ron shrugged, and the movement again sent a small leaf spiraling down from the crown of his head. "Besides, as I told you, you had a dinner party, which gave me ample opportunity to stay in my quarters and just read."

"A much better time than _I_ had at that party," Hermione muttered, setting both books beside her on the bench. "And thank you for being discreet. My mother would hate to know you're borrowing books— I don't think she even believes the 'peasantry' should be allowed to read."

"Good for me that it's her daughter that lends me the books then."

Hermione felt a small ripple go through her stomach at that. "Well? What did you think?"

"It seems you were right, as I suspect you often are: one of Shakespeare's best. I thoroughly enjoyed it."

Hermione found that she had leaned forward slightly to listen to him, and was left in expectation of the next part of his opinion. As it stood, it seemed as if he was going to say no more.

"A rather short review. That's it?"

Ron kept his pause for a few more seconds before he drew a breath in and wrinkled his brow amusedly. "You strike me as a Hero."

"A hero?" Hermione was befuddled. "What an odd thing to say."

"With a capital H. _Hero_. You know, as in the play?"

"And why may that be, pray tell?"

"Well, you're a spoiled noble girl, you're whiny, you never stand up to your parents..."

"Watch it!" Hermione said irately, standing up so suddenly that the skirt of her dress, which had been under the books, was drawn upwards with such force that they toppled to the ground.

"What, Lady Granger?" Ron teased, standing up much more collectedly to match her stance. His much taller figure loomed over her, creating a comical portrayal of a tall, slender, cross-armed smirking figure and a short, rageful, frilly-dressed one. "Don't like hearing it how it is?"

"Take it back," Hermione hissed.

"I will not," Ron drew his crossed arms even closer to his chest. "Not until you learn to put your foot down with Lady Amelia. You know, a rumor among the house staff says she wanted to marry you off to that Cedric Diggory character..."

"Oh, yeah?" Hermione shrieked, suddenly furious at her private affairs being discussed freely among the estate staff (though she knew such gossip was practically a rule among them). "Well, you're— you're a Claudio!" she exclaimed, her voice rising to a shrill pitch. "Impulsive, an arrogant chauvinist, assuming the worst of everyone—"

"Hullo?" a different voice came from the main path, stopping Hermione dead in her tracks as she turned, mouth still ajar, to see who else had breached her solitude.

A smiling Orlando strolled nonchalantly down the path, looking amused as he circled around the birdbath to join them. "Oh, Hermione, I thought it was you by the pitch of the screaming. It seems I wasn't the only one who thought of going for a walk."

"Hullo, Orlando," Ron bid him pleasantly, and Hermione's gaze shifted back to Ron in surprise.

"You know each other?"

"Of course we do," Orlando said, weaving around to shake Ron's hand eagerly. "Ron's the best."

"I taught him how to play chess," Ron said proudly.

"And thank you for that, by the way— I beat Harry at it the other night and he couldn't believe it. He'll want a rematch, but I simply cannot let him win— you'll help me practice, won't you?"

"It'd be my pleasure," Ron nodded slightly. "Someone has to humble you after this win, after all."

"Someday, Ron, someday the student will become the master," Orlando gave him a friendly clap on the back before turning to his sister. "But no, not really. Ron's an absolute chess god. He could take on any of those Russian champions, those that always show up in the papers, and win."

"I wouldn't know about that," Ron said, his ears tinting red with the flattery.

"Oh, I'm sure, Ron, I'm absolutely sure you could," Orlando gave him another clap and again focused on Hermione. "So how do you two know each other?"

"Your sister has been lending me books," Ron said, gesturing to the two volumes on the grass by the bench. 

"Well, that seems rather harmless," Orlando remarked. "Where'd the shouting come from, then?"

Hermione opened her mouth to answer, but Ron was quicker. "It seems as though Miss Granger didn't really like it when I gave her my honest review of the book."

At that, Hermione could take it no longer. "You're insufferable!" she spat, and without so much as a second look at Orlando and Ron's faces, she gathered her books, her parasol, and stomped out of the rose garden without even opening the latter.

Ron and Orlando watched her go and remained in silence for a few seconds after she had disappeared from sight. Then they turned, look at each other, and burst out into raucous laughter.


End file.
